Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy Read online

  I slumped at the table, head on my arms. Bloody Ellen Boschup. Don’t these people realize what harm they cause with their glib social generalizations? Plucking bogus phenomena and flimsy constructs out of the air at meetings – ‘Whatever Happened to the Dining Room?’ ‘Suddenly There Are More Dining Rooms Everywhere!!’ – then writing sententious social commentary as if it’s the conclusion to years of in-depth research rather than 1200 words to file on a deadline, ruining people’s lives and relationships, based on something they overheard in the gastropub and a couple of blurry photographs in Heat magazine.

  ‘Should I go and pick up Mabel and take her to the doctor?’ asked Chloe. ‘Are you all right, Bridget?’

  ‘No, no, I’ll . . . go and get her,’ I said. ‘Could you text the school and tell them I’ll be there in a mo?’

  I walked insouciantly into the toilet and slumped, mind racing. If only there was just one thing to deal with. Roxster’s ‘confusion’, the horrible article, the ‘proper screenwriter’ or the septic-finger shame I could probably handle individually but not all at the same time. Clearly the septic finger had to take precedence, but could I allow anyone to see me in such a disturbed state? If I picked Mabel up like this, wild-eyed and bonkers, and took her to the doctor, would the school or the doctor put her into care?

  Equilibrium was what I needed. I needed to clear my mind, because, as it says in How to Stay Sane, the mind is plastic.

  I took some deep breaths in and out and went, ‘Maaaaa,’ to pray to the mother of the universe.

  I looked at myself in the mirror. It really wasn’t good. I washed my face, straightened my hair with my fingers, emerged from the toilet and walked past Chloe with a gracious, lady-of-the-house smile, glossing over the fact that I was still dressed in a slip at eleven in the morning and she may have just heard me saying ‘Maaaaa’ in the toilet.

  1 p.m. Mabel seemed quite excited about the finger. It actually wasn’t as bad as they’d made out, but still, it was hard to see how a responsible mother could have missed it if it really had been like that all the time.

  At the doctor’s, stood in front of the two receptionists for four minutes while they calmly continued to type as if a) I wasn’t there and b) they were both writing contemplative poems. In the meantime Mabel was trotting happily around the waiting room, and picking up leaflets from the plastic wall display.

  ‘I’m going to weed!’ she said, and started reading out, ‘Guh oh nuh oh ruh.’

  ‘Well done, darling,’ I said, finally sitting down and desperately checking my texts to see if Greenlight or Roxster or indeed anyone had anything to say to make me feel better.

  ‘Guh, oh, nuh, oh, ruh, ruh, huh, oh, eh, ah.’

  ‘So clever!’ I murmured.

  ‘Gonorrhoea!’ she shouted triumphantly, opening the leaflet. ‘Oh, there’s pictures! Weed Gonorrhoea to me?’

  ‘Oh! Hahaha!’ I said, grabbing the leaflets and stuffing them in my handbag. ‘Let’s see if there are some more lovely leaflets,’ I said, staring glassily at an array of them in a variety of cheery colours: ‘Syphilis’, ‘Non-Specific Urethritis’, ‘Male and Female Condoms’ and – rather late in the day – ‘Pubic Lice’.

  ‘Let’s play with the toys!’ I trilled.

  ‘I can’t believe I didn’t notice it,’ I said, when we finally got in to the doctor.

  ‘They can flare up in a few moments,’ the doctor said supportively. ‘She just needs some antibiotics and she’ll be fine.’

  After the doctor’s we went and bought some Disney Princess plasters from the chemist, and Mabel decided she wanted to go back to school.

  2 p.m. Just got home, relieved to have house to self, and sat down to . . . What, though? Work? But I’ve been sacked, haven’t I? Everything looks dark and gloomy.

  Oh, wait, am still wearing prescription sunglasses again.

  3.15 p.m. Just spent twenty minutes staring melodramatically into space, trying not to imagine shooting myself like Hedda Gabler, then started googling skull or dagger pendants on Net-a-Porter instead. Then suddenly realized with a start it was time for Mabel and Billy’s school pickup.

  6 p.m. I was in a complete flap when Mabel and I got to Billy’s school because we were late, and I had to go to the office first about Billy’s bassoon lessons. ‘Have you got the form?’ said Valerie, the school secretary. Started rifling through the mess that was my handbag, putting papers down on the counter.

  ‘Ah, Mr Wallaker,’ said Valerie.

  I looked up and there he was, smirking as usual.

  ‘Everything going well?’ he said, still looking down at the mess. I followed his gaze. ‘Syphilis – Looking After Your Sexual Health’. ‘Gonorrhoea – Signs and Symptoms’. ‘Sexual Health Direct! A User’s Guide’.

  ‘They’re not mine,’ I said.

  ‘Right, right.’

  ‘They’re Mabel’s!’

  ‘Mabel’s! Well, in that case, that’s fine.’ He was actually shaking with mirth now. I grabbed the leaflets and stuffed them back in my bag.

  ‘Hey!’ said Mabel. ‘Dothe are my leafletth. Give them to me!’

  Mabel reached into my bag and grabbed ‘Gonorrhoea – Signs and Symptoms’. I tried, undignified, to snatch it back, but Mabel wasn’t letting go.

  ‘They’re my leafletth,’ said Mabel accusingly, adding, for effect, ‘Dammit!’

  ‘And they’re very useful leaflets,’ said Mr Wallaker, bending down. ‘Why don’t you take this one as well and give the rest to Mummy?’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Wallaker,’ I said firmly but pleasantly, then, nose in the air, swept off graciously towards the school gates, nearly tripping over Mabel on the steps, but nevertheless making a reasonably elegant exit.

  ‘Bridget!’ roared Mr Wallaker suddenly, as if I was one of the boys. I turned, startled. He had never called me Bridget before.

  ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’

  I stared at him blankly.

  ‘Billy?’ He turned to Billy who was trotting up, looking at Mr Wallaker with a conspiratorial grin. They both looked at me, smirking.

  ‘She even forgets to get up sometimes,’ said Billy.

  ‘I bet,’ said Mr Wallaker.

  ‘Come along, children!’ I said, trying to regain my dignity.

  ‘Yeth, Mother,’ said Mabel with an unmistakable dollop of irony which was, frankly, annoying in one so small.

  ‘Thank you, Daughter,’ I said smoothly. ‘Hurry along! Goodbye, Mr Wallaker.’

  When we got home, Billy and I slumped on the sofa as Mabel played happily with her sexual health leaflets.

  ‘I got rubbish marks for my homework,’ said Billy.

  ‘I got rubbish marks for my screenwriting.’

  I showed him the email about the ‘proper screenwriter’. Billy handed me his art book with his colouring of Ganesha the Elephant God and the teacher’s notes:

  ‘I like your mix of yellow, green and red on his head. However, I am not sure that the multicoloured ears quite work.’

  We stared at each other dolefully, then both started giggling.

  ‘Shall we have an oatmeal cookie?’ I said.

  We got through the whole packet, but it’s just like eating muesli, right?

  OVERSTUFFED LIVES

  Wednesday 5 June 2013

  134lb, hours in day 24, hours required to do all things supposed to do in day 36, hours spent worrying about how to fit in all things supposed to do in day 4, number of things supposed to have done actually done 1 (go to toilet).

  2 p.m.

  LIST OF JOBS

  *Put washing on

  *Respond to Zombie Apocalypse invite

  *Call Brian Katzenberg about the Ambergris Bilk email

  *Blow up bike

  *Grated cheese

  *Figure out weekend: Saturday afternoon is Atticus’s African drumming party for Billy but Bikram’s mum says she will do pickup or drop-off if we do the other, then Cosmata’s Build-A-Bear party for Mabel on Sun at the same ti
me as Billy’s football. Figure out who is going to pick kids up from which party with Jeremiah’s mum and Cosmata’s mum and also ask Jeremiah’s mum if Jeremiah wants to come to football.

  *Call Mum (my mum)

  *Call Grazina and see if she can fill in gaps at weekend, then check trains to Eastbourne

  *Figure out what to do re Roxster mini-break

  *Find bank card

  *Find Virgin remote

  *Find telephone

  *Lose 3lb

  *Respond to mass emails re Sports Day vegetables

  *Find out if still supposed to go to Greenlight meeting tomorrow

  *Greek or Roman myth party/photo

  *Half-leg and bikini wax in case mini-break still on

  *‘Ic’ Suffix Family ‘crest’

  *Core Stability

  *Fill in form about Billy’s bassoon lessons and take to school

  *Find bassoon form

  *Toilet light bulb

  *Exercise on exercise bike (clearly this is not going to happen)

  *Send back Net-a-Porter dress that didn’t wear for Talitha’s party

  *Find out why fridge is making that noise

  *Find and destroy Mabel’s gonorrhoea leaflets

  *Find end scene from draft 12 about scuba-diving

  *Teeth

  Oh God. All these jobs will not actually fit into an hour, which is now twenty minutes.

  OK. Am simply going to do ‘Quadrant Living’ like it says in The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People and simply arrange the jobs into ‘four quadrants’:

  2.45 p.m. You see. Much better!

  2.50 p.m. Perhaps will go to the toilet. That is at least one of them.

  2.51 p.m. Right, have been to the toilet now.

  2.55 p.m. Oooh! Doorbell!

  I opened the door, and Rebecca from across the road fell into the hallway, wearing a tiara, mascara smeared under her eyes, staring into space, clutching a list and a polythene bag full of egg sandwiches.

  ‘Do you want a fag?’ she said, in a strange, other-worldly voice. ‘I can’t go on.’

  We went downstairs and slumped, staring into space, sucking on our fags like fishwives.

  ‘The annual Latin play,’ she said in a strange, disconnected voice.

  ‘Staff presents,’ I concurred dully. ‘Zombie Apocalypses.’ Then burst into a coughing fit as have not had a fag for five years apart from two puffs on a joint at Leatherjacketman’s party.

  ‘I think I’m having a full-on breakdown without anyone actually noticing,’ said Rebecca.

  Suddenly leaped to my feet, stubbing out the fag, in inspirational frenzy.

  ‘It’s just a question of prioritizing into quadrants. Look!’ I said, thrusting my quadrant sheet under her nose.

  She stared at the form, then burst into hysterical high-pitched giggles like someone in a mental hospital.

  I suddenly had a brainwave. ‘It’s a State of Emergency!’ I said excitedly. ‘A cut-and-dried State of Emergency. Once a State of Emergency is declared, normal service is suspended and you don’t have to expect anything to be all right and you just need to do whatever you need to do to get through the emergency.’

  ‘Great!’ said Rebecca. ‘Let’s have a drinky. Just a little teensy-weensy one.’

  I mean, it was only half a glass and really everything suddenly seemed much better, till she leaped up saying, ‘Oh my bloody God and fuck. I’m supposed to be on the school run,’ and ran out of the door, just as Roxster texted:

  Rebecca then reappeared for her egg sandwiches just as I remembered I was supposed to be on the school run as well. Ran upstairs, then downstairs, looking for the rice cakes, simultaneously texting Roxster:

  3.30 p.m. Back in car now. Oh, shit, have forgotten rice cakes.

  Gaah, text from Roxster.

 

  HE’S having a panic attack?

  Ended up rushing from car to school in ungainly half-walking, half-running gait in middle of which Scandinavian tourists chose me – for unexplained reasons – to ask for directions. Panicking that they were trying to steal my time, I carried on walking determinedly whilst gesturing directions back to them. Oh God. Have let down country by being inhospitable to foreigners (though Scandinavia is in EU, I think?). But what is world coming to when one is more scared of passers-by stealing one’s time than one’s handbag?

  9.30 p.m. No phone call from Roxster.

  Oh God, oh God, he’s going to call and break up with me for not having a time machine.

  10 p.m. Hate it when people delay phone calls because you know they are putting it off as they have to say what you don’t want to hear. Though Roxster hates phone calls anyway because I do too much talking and will not delay talking until the morning. Oh, phone call! Roxster!

  10.05 p.m. ‘Oh, hello, darling.’ My mother. ‘Do you know, Penny Husbands-Bosworth has started lying about her age – she says she’s eighty-four. It’s completely ridiculous. Pawl, you know, the pastry chef, says she’s just doing it so everyone will say how young she looks and . . .’

  10.09 p.m. Have managed to get Mum off phone but now feel guilty and also think maybe Roxster called while she was . . . Oooh! Text!

  10.10 p.m. Was from Chloe.

 

  Aaaaaargh! How has child-rearing got so . . . so complicated? Is as if you have to keep them on some sort of permanent high of engagement and happiness.

  10.30 p.m. Suddenly enraged with Roxster, blaming the whole socio-global child-rearing dysfunctional collapse on him. ‘BLOODY Roxster! Me and Chloe have had to arrange all this complex matrix of African drummers and bears and extra people taking care of the children because of Roxster, and now will have nowhere to go and no one to see, simply because of Roxster. Will be like a . . . like a GIANT CUCKOO, de trop in own house ALL BECAUSE OF ROXSTER!’ – conveniently overlooking the fact that it was me who had wanted to go on the childcare-demanding mini-break in the first place.

  10.35 p.m. Impulsively sent positively glacial text to Roxster, saying: – then immediately regretted it as totally non-Zen and the Art of Falling in Love and hideous, anal and mean-spirited tone. Can completely see why Roxster might be having doubts as is twenty-one-year age difference, especially if adopting anal tone.

  10.45 p.m. Muted text came back from Roxster.

 

  Impulsively sent back: < But the mini-break is all set up now and it’s the first chance we’ve had to go away together on our own and it will be so romantic and . . . and everything.>

  A few minutes’ wait – then a texting ping.

 

  Yayyy! We’re going on a mini-break.

  11 p.m. Talitha just called to see what was happening and said, ‘Careful, darling. Once they have wobbles like that, they’re not just enjoying the moment any more, they’re thinking about the long term. And Roxster’s far too young to know what a disastrous mistake that is.’

  Feel like putting hands over ears saying, ‘Lalalala, don’t care. You only live once. We’re going on a mini-break! Hurrah!’

  Thursday 6 June 2013

  9.
30 a.m. Got back from school run. Turned on email to deal with the school Sports Day picnic and detonated:

  Sender:

  Brian Katzenberg

  Subject:

  Forwarded email

  Yes, you are fired. But they still want you in the mix. They’re going to set up a meeting with the new writer. The movie business!

  A new writer? Already? How could they possibly have found one so quickly?

  Phone quacked.

  Roxster:

  Jerked into action in a frenzy of googling country pubs on LateRooms.com to find absolutely everything was booked up.

  We are like Mary and Joseph with no room at the Inn except that rather than about to give birth to the Son of God am about to be broken up with by Joseph.

  10 a.m. Just texted Tom who texted back five minutes later.

 

  10.05 a.m. Oh. Just checked the treehouse. It’s £875 a night.

  10.15 a.m. Yayy! Have found a room in a pub.

  10.20 a.m. Oh, just called them. It’s the Bridal Suite. Texted Roxster.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  <*Sighs* Yes, Roxster, they do.>

 

 

 

 

  10.45 a.m. No reply. Oh God. Maybe he thinks I’m serious?