Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy Page 24

  ‘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.

  Unfortunately, however, in the midst of laying out picnic rugs and chopped vegetables, said melting-down mother was suddenly overcome with un-Zen-like rage at Roxster for putting her into such a meltdown and sent off a blistering texting rant which went as follows:

 

  Broke off briefly to graciously pour out some of my giant bottle of Pimm’s for Farzia and the other mothers.

 

  Then turned back to the
group, commenting flatteringly upon the delicious picnic, before returning to my text with an apologetic smile suggesting that I was a very busy and important businesswoman and not just texting farts to a toy boy who had dumped me unequivocally for being too old.

  The phone vibrated.

  Roxster:

  Me:

  Quickly checked the children – Billy was running round maniacally with a group of boys and Mabel and another small girl were cheerfully saying obscurely mean things to each other – then returned to my texting exchange.

  Roxster:

  Me:

  Roxster:

  Me:

  ‘Enjoying supporting the sporting activities?’

  It was Mr Wallaker, positively sneering down at my iPhone. Was just trying to get up, which, because I’d been sitting on my knees for so long, involved crashing onto all fours, when the starter pistol went off for the first race.

  In that split second, I saw Mr Wallaker freeze, and his hand whip to his hip as if for a gun. I could see the powerful body tensed beneath his sports shirt, the muscle in his cheek working, eyes casing the playing fields. As the egg-and-spoon racers wobbled off the starting blocks, he blinked, as if remembering himself, then glanced round sheepishly to see if anyone had noticed.

  ‘Everything all right?’ I said, raising one eyebrow in an attempt to mimic his usual supercilious manner, which may not have been entirely successful, owing to my still being on all fours.

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said, his cool blue eyes levelly meeting mine. ‘Just a slight issue I have with . . . spoons.’

  Then he turned and jogged off towards the egg-and-spoon finishing line. I stared after him. What was that about? Was he delusional, dissatisfied with his mundane life and filled with Bond fantasies? Or was he the sort of person who dresses up as Oliver Cromwell and fights pretend battles at the weekends?

  As the sporting events got under way, I put the iPhone away and started to focus. ‘Come on, Mabel,’ I said, ‘it’s Billy’s long jump.’

  As they measured Billy’s jump a cheer went up and he leaped into the air.

  ‘I told you, dammit!’ said Mabel.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Dey do have tape measuring in the Kwintoflon.’

  ‘Yes, it is an increasingly popular athletic category.’

  It was Mr Wallaker and, teetering behind him, a strange, out-of-place woman I hadn’t seen before.

  ‘Could I possibly have a drop of that Pimm’s?’ She was wearing a white, expensive-looking crocheted dress and high-heeled mules with gold things on. Her face had that slightly peculiar look which people have when they’ve had work done which obviously seems fine when they’re staring at the mirror but looks weird as soon as they move their face.

  ‘Pimm’s?’ she said to Mr Wallaker. ‘Dear?’

  ‘DEAR’? Could this possibly be Mr Wallaker’s WIFE? How had that one happened?

  Mr Wallaker looked uncharacteristically discombobulated. ‘Bridget, this is . . . this is Sarah. Don’t worry, I’ll do the Pimm’s, you go to Billy,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Come on, Mabel,’ I said, as Billy galloped over like an exuberant puppy, bits of shirt and sash flying in the wind, and buried his head in my dress.

  As we started packing up the things before the prize-giving, the weird, drunk Mr-Wallaker-wife teetered over to us again.

  ‘Could I have some more Pimm’s?’ she slurred. I began to think I quite liked her really. It’s always so nice to meet someone more badly behaved than oneself.

  Then she said, ‘Thanks you,’ peering at me with her surprised eyes. ‘Not often I meet someone your age who’s still got a real face.’

  ‘Someone who’s still got a real face’? During the prize-giving I couldn’t help regurgitating the phrase. ‘Someone your age with a real face’? What did she mean? That I was daring to go around without having Botox? Oh God, oh God. Maybe Talitha was right. I was going to die of loneliness because I was so wrinkly. No wonder Roxster had dumped me.

  As soon as the prize-giving was over and Billy and Mabel absorbed with their friends, I dived into the clubhouse to recover my composure, stopping in appalled dismay at a poster on the noticeboard:

  And another:

  Furtively typing the Advice and Support number into my iPhone, I stumbled into the Ladies and surveyed myself under the harsh, unforgiving light of an unshaded bulb. Mr Wallaker’s wife was right. The skin around my eyes was becoming, even as I watched, a mass of wrinkles; chin and jowls were sagging, neck like a turkey, marionette lines rushing from my mouth to my chin in manner of Angela Merkel. As I stared I could almost see my hair turning into a tight grey perm. It had finally happened. I was an old lady.

  THE DEEP FREEZE

  Tuesday 18 June 2013

  136lb (inc. 1lb of botulism).

  I mean, lots of people do Botox, don’t they? It’s not like having a facelift. ‘Exactly,’ said Talitha, when she gave me the number. ‘It’s just like going to the dentist!’

  Went down into basement off Harley Street feeling like was going to back-street abortionist.

  ‘I don’t want to look weird,’ I said, trying to replace the image of Mr Wallaker’s wife with that of Talitha.

  ‘No,’ said the strange foreign-sounding Botox doctor. ‘Too many peoples looks weirds.’

  Felt tiny pricking sensation in forehead.

  ‘Just goweeng to do your mouse now. You are going to laave eet. You don do your mouse, zee face start to droop so you look meeesrable. Like ze Queen.’

  I thought about this. Actually it might be true. The Queen does quite often look as if she’s unhappy or disapproving and she probably isn’t really. Maybe the Queen should have Botox in her mouth!

  Came out, blinking in the lights of Harley Street and grimacing my face as the doctor had told me to.

  ‘Bridget!’

  I looked across the road, startled. It was Woney, wife of Cosmo.

  As she hurried across I blinked at her. Woney looked . . . different. Could she possibly have had . . . hair extensions? Her hair was a good six inches longer than it had been at Talitha’s party and dark brown, not grey. And instead of her usual high-necked duchess dress she was wearing a fitted peach frock with a beautiful neckline, which showed off her waist, plus high heels.

  ‘You look fantastic,’ I said.

  She smiled. ‘Thank you. It was . . . well, what you said last year at Magda’s drinks. And then after Talitha’s party I thought . . . and Talitha told me where to get my hair done and . . . had some Botox, but don’t tell Cosmo. And how is it going, with your young man? I’ve just been sitting next to one at a charity lunch. It’s absolutely marvellous, isn’t it, doing a bit of flirting?!’

  What could I say? Telling her he’d dumped me for being too old would be like telling the troops in the First World War trenches that it looked as though the Germans were winning.

  ‘There’s everything to be said for the younger man,’ I said. ‘You look fabulous.’

  And she teetered off, giggling, and I could swear, at two in the afternoon, slightly drunk.

  Well, at least something good has come out of it all, I muttered to myself. And her Botox looked great, so maybe mine would too!

  Friday 21 June 2013

  Remaining consonants able to pronounce 0.

  2.30 p.m. Oh my God. Oh my God. Something really weird is happening to my mouth. It’s all swelling up inside.

  2.35 p.m. Just looked in mirror. Lips are sticking out. Mouth is puffed up and sort of paralysed.

  2.40 p.m. Billy’s school just rang abo
ut the bassoon lessons and cannot speak properly. Cannot easily say Ps or Bs or Fs. What am I going to do? Am going to be like this for next three months.

  2.50 p.m. Have started drooling. Cannot control mouth so drool is coming out of side of mouth like – ironically enough given objective was to look younger – stroke ‘victim’ in old people’s home. Have to keep dabbing at it with a tissue.

  2.55 p.m. Called up Talitha and tried to expbflain.

  ‘But it shouldn’t do that. You should go back. Something must have gone wrong. It’s probably an allergic reaction. It’ll wear off.’

  3.15 p.m. Have got to do school run. Actually it will be fine. Will simply drape a scarf round my mouth. People don’t notice specific bits of other people, they see the whole.

  3.30 p.m. Collected Mabel, with scarf draped around mouth like Masked Raider. Took scarf off gratefully in car, and turned round to do usual complex body-contorting movement in order to get the seat belt into the thing. At least Mabel hasn’t noticed, munching happily away at her snack.

  3.45 p.m. Ugh, traffic is terrible. Why do people drive these enormous SUV things in London? It’s like once they’re in one, they think they’re driving a tank and everyone has to get out of their . . .

  ‘Mummy?’

  ‘Yes, Mabel.’

  ‘Your mouth looks all funny.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, successfully avoiding consonants.

  ‘Why is your mouth all funny?’

  Attempted to say ‘because’ but fuffing noise came out: ‘Pfecase I’pf . . .’

  ‘Mummy, why are you talking funny?’

  ‘It’s pfine, Bfafell, just by bouth is a bit pfoorly.’

  ‘What did you say, Mother?’

  ‘It’s all good, Daughter,’ I managed. You see, if I can just stick to vowels and guttural and sibilant consonants it’s bpffine!

  4 p.m. Put scarf round mouth again and took worried-looking Mabel by her little hand, into the Junior Branch.

  Billy was playing football. Tried to yell, but how could I say ‘Bfpilly’?