Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy (2 page)

By the time I got to the Infants Branch, Mabel was the only child left on the steps, apart from the last straggler, Thelonius, who was about to leave with his mum.

Mabel looked at me with her huge solemn eyes.

‘Come on, Old Pal,’ she said kindly.

‘We wondered where you’d got to!’ said Thelonius’s mum. ‘Did you forget again?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘The road was completely gridlocked.’

‘Mummy’th fifty-one!’ Mabel suddenly burst out. ‘Mummy’th fifty-one. She says she’th thirty-five but she’th really fifty-one.’

‘Shhh. Hahaha!’ I responded to Thelonius’s mother’s stare. ‘Better run off and get Billy!’

Managed to get Mabel, still yelling ‘Mummy’th fifty-one!’, into the car, leaning over in the traditional body-wrenching movement, which gets increasingly awkward with age, fastening the seat belt by waddling my hand in the mess between the seat back and booster seat.

Arrived at Billy’s Junior Branch to see Perfect Nicolette, the Class Mother (perfect house, perfect husband, perfect children: only slight imperfection being name, presumably chosen by parents before invention of popular smoking substitute), surrounded by a gaggle of Junior Branch mothers. Perfect Nicorette was perfectly dressed and perfectly
blow-dried with a perfectly gigantic handbag. Sidled up, panting, to see if I could get the scoop on the latest Area of Concern, just as Nicolette flicked her hair crossly, nearly taking my eye out with the corner of the giant bag.

‘I asked him why Atticus is still in the football Ds – I mean, Atticus has been coming home, literally, in tears – and Mr Wallaker just said, “Because he’s rubbish. Anything else?”’

Glanced over at the Area of Concern/new sports teacher: fit, tall, slightly younger than me, crop-haired, rather like Daniel Craig in appearance. He was staring broodingly at a group of unruly boys, then suddenly blew a whistle and bellowed, ‘Oi! You lot. In the cloakroom now or I’ll Caution you.’

‘You see?’ Nicolette continued, as the boys formed themselves into a shambolic line, attempting to jog back into school, shouting, ‘One, sir! Two, sir!’ like startled bushmen recruited to form a Spring Uprising, while Mr Wallaker blew his whistle ludicrously in time.

‘He is hot, though,’ said Farzia. Farzia is my favourite school mum, always having her priorities in place.

‘Hot, but married,’ snapped Nicolette. ‘And with children, though you wouldn’t guess it.’

‘I thought he was a friend of the headmaster,’ ventured another mum.

‘Exactly. Is he even trained?’ said Nicolette.

‘Mummy.’ Looked round to see Billy, in his little blazer, dark hair tousled, shirt hanging out of his trousers. ‘I didn’t get picked for chess.’ Those same eyes, those same dark eyes, stabbed with pain.

‘It doesn’t matter about being picked or winning,’ I said, giving Billy a furtive hug. ‘It’s who you are that counts.’

‘Of course it matters.’ Gaah! It was Mr Wallaker. ‘He has to practise. He has to earn it.’ As he turned away, distinctly heard him mutter, ‘The sense of entitlement amongst the mothers in this school defies belief.’

‘Practise?’ I said brightly. ‘Why, I’d never have thought of that! You must be terribly clever, Mr Wallaker. I mean, sir.’

He looked at me with his cold blue eyes.

‘What has this got to do with the Sports Department?’ I continued sweetly.

‘I teach the chess class.’

‘But how lovely! Do you use the whistle?’

Mr Wallaker looked disconcerted for a moment, then said, ‘Eros! Get out of that flower bed. Now!’

‘Mummy,’ said Billy, tugging on my hand, ‘the ones that got picked get two days off school to go to the chess tournament.’

‘I’ll practise with you.’

‘But Mummy, you’re rubbish at chess.’

‘No, I’m not! I’m really good at chess. I beat you!’

‘You didn’t.’

‘I did!’

‘You didn’t!’

‘Well, I was letting you win because you’re a child,’ I burst out. ‘And anyway, it isn’t fair because you have chess classes.’

‘Perhaps you could join the chess classes, Mrs Darcy?’ Oh GOD. What was Mr Wallaker doing still listening? ‘There is an age limit of seven, but if we stretch that to mental age I’m sure you’ll be fine. Did Billy tell you his other news?’

‘Oh!’ said Billy, brightening. ‘I’ve got nits!’

‘Nits!’ I stared at him aghast, hand reaching instinctively to my hair.

‘Yes, nits. They’ve all got them.’ Mr Wallaker looked down, a slight flicker of amusement in his eyes. ‘I realize this will cause a National Emergency amongst the north London Mumserati and their coiffeurs but you simply need to nit-comb them. And yourself, of course.’

Oh God. Billy had been scratching his head recently but I’d sort of blanked it as one thing too many to take on. Could feel my head starting to crawl as my mind cartwheeled. If Billy’s got nits, then probably Mabel’s got nits, and I’ve got nits, which means that . . . Roxster has got nits.

‘Everything all right?’

‘Yes, no, super!’ I said. ‘Everything’s fine, jolly good, bye then, Mr Wallaker.’

Walked away, holding Billy’s and Mabel’s hands, to hear a ping on my mobile. Hurriedly put on my glasses to read the text. It was from Roxster.

Gaaah! Cannot have Roxster coming over when we have to nit-comb everyone and wash all the pillowcases. Surely it is not normal to be thinking of an excuse to cancel your toy boy because the entire household has got nits? Why do I keep getting myself into such a mess?

5 p.m.
We burst back into our terrace house, with the usual jumble of backpacks, crumpled paintings, squashed bananas, plus a large bag of nit-combing products from the chemist, and clattered past the ground-floor ‘lounge/office’ (increasingly redundant apart from the sofa bed and empty John Lewis boxes) and down the stairs into the warm messy basement/kitchen/sitting room where we spend all our time. I settled Billy to do his homework and Mabel to play with her ‘Hellvanians’ (Sylvanian bunnies) while I put on the spag bog. But now am in total fug about what to text Roxster about tonight, and whether I should tell him about the nits.

5.15 p.m.
Maybe not.

5.30 p.m.
Oh God. Had just texted when Mabel suddenly sprang up and started singing Billy’s least favourite song at him, ‘Forgeddabouder money money money!’ Then the phone rang.

Lunged at it, just as Billy jumped up, yelling, ‘Mabel, stop singing Jessie J!’ and a receptionist’s voice purred, ‘I have Brian Katzenberg for you.’

‘Um, could I possibly call Brian back in—’

‘Berbling, berbling!’ sang Mabel, chasing Billy round the table.

‘I have Brian on now.’

‘Nooo! Can you just—’

‘Mabel!’ wailed Billy. ‘Stop iiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.’

‘Shhh! I’m on the PHONE!’

‘Heyyyyyy!’ Brian’s brisk cheery voice. ‘So! Great news! Greenlight Productions want to take out an option on your script.’

‘What?’ I said, heart leaping. ‘Does that mean they’re going to make it into a film?’

Brian laughed heartily. ‘It’s the movie business! They’re just going to give you a small amount of money to develop it, and—’

‘Mummeee! Mabel’s got a knife!’

I put my hand over the receiver, hissing, ‘MABEL! Give me the knife! Now!’

‘Hello? Hello?’ Brian was saying. ‘Laura, I think we’ve lost Bridget . . .’

‘No! I’m here!’ I said, flinging myself at Mabel, who was now hurtling after Billy, brandishing the knife.

‘They want to have an exploratory meeting on Monday at noon.’

‘Monday! Great!’ I said, wrestling the knife off Mabel. ‘Is the exploratory meeting like an interview?’

‘Mummeeee!’

‘Shhhh!’ I hustled the two of them onto the sofa, and started struggling with the remotes.

‘They just have a few issues with the script they want to talk about before they decide to go ahead.’

‘Right, right.’ Suddenly felt hurt and indignant. A few issues with my script
already
? But what could they possibly be?

‘So, remember they’re not going to—’

‘Mummeee. I’m bleeeeeding!’

‘Shall I call back in a while?’

‘No! All fine!’ I said desperately, as Mabel yelled, ‘Call de ambulance!’

‘You were saying?’

‘They’re not going to want a first-time writer who’s difficult. You’ve got to find a way to go along with what they want.’

‘Right, right, so not to be sort of a nuisance?’

‘You got it!’ said Brian.

‘My brudder’th going to die!’ sobbed Mabel.

‘Er, is everything—’

‘No, fine, super, twelve o’clock Monday!’ I said, just as Mabel shouted, ‘I’ve killed my brudder!’

‘OK,’ said Brian, sounding nervous. ‘I’ll get Laura to email you the details.’

6 p.m.
Once the furore had been dampened, the minuscule snick on Billy’s knee covered in a Superman plaster, black marks placed on Mabel’s Consequences Chart, and spag bog placed in their stomachs, I found my mind flashing through multiple matters, like that of a drowning person, only more optimistic. What was I going to wear for the meeting and was I going to win an Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay? Didn’t Mabel have an early finish on Monday and how was I going to pick them up? What was I going to wear for the Oscar ceremony and ought I to tell the Greenlight Productions team that Billy has got nits?

8 p.m.
Nits found 9, actual insects 2, nit eggs 7 (v.g.)

Just bathed the kids and nit-combed them, which turned out to be brilliant fun. Found two actual insects in Billy’s hair and seven eggs behind his ears – two behind one and a magnificent crop of five behind the other. It’s so satisfying seeing the little black dots appear on the white nit comb. Mabel was upset as she didn’t have any, but cheered up when I let her nit-comb me to reveal I didn’t have any either. Billy was waving the nit comb, crowing, ‘I got seven!’ but when Mabel burst into tears, he sweetly put three of his into her hair, which meant we had to nit-comb Mabel all over again.

9.15 p.m.
Kids are asleep. Wildly puffed up re meeting. Am professional woman again and going to a meeting! Am going to wear navy silk dress and get hair blow-dried in spite of Mr bloody Wallaker’s supercilious take on coiffeurs. And in spite of gnawing sense that increasing female blow-dry habit is turning women into those eighteenth (or seventeenth?) century men who only felt comfortable in public situations when wearing powdered wigs.

9.21 p.m.
Oh, though is it morally wrong to get a blow-dry when I may have undetectable nit eggs at the start of their seven-day cycle?

9.25 p.m.
Yes. It is morally wrong. Maybe Mabel and Billy should not go to play dates either?

9.30 p.m.
Also feel should tell Roxster truth about nits, as lies are bad in a relationship. But maybe, in this case, lies better than lice?

9.35 p.m.
Nits seem to be throwing up unfeasible number of modern moral dilemmas.

9.40 p.m.
Gaah! Just went through entire wardrobe (i.e. pile of clothes heaped on exercise bike) plus actual wardrobes and cannot find navy silk dress. Have nothing to wear for meeting now. Nothing. How is it that have all these clothes stuffed into wardrobe and navy silk dress is only one that can actually wear for anything important?

Resolve in future, instead of spending evenings shoving grated cheese into mouth and trying to avoid glugging wine, to calmly go through all clothes, giving anything that have not worn for a year to the poor, and organize everything else into mixy-matchy ‘capsule wardrobe’ so that getting dressed becomes a calm joy instead of hysterical scramble. And then will go for twenty minutes on exercise bike. As exercise bike is not wardrobe, obviously, but exercise bike.

9.45 p.m.
Though maybe it is all right to wear navy silk dress all the time in manner of Dalai Lama and his robes. If I could find it. Presumably Dalai Lama has several sets of robes, or on-call dry-cleaner, and does not leave robes in bottom of wardrobe full of outfits he bought but does not wear from Topshop, Oasis, ASOS, Zara, etc.

9.46 p.m.
Or on exercise bike.

9.50 p.m.
Just went up to check on children. Mabel was asleep, hair all over her face as usual, so that her head looked back to front, and clutching Saliva. Saliva is Mabel’s dolly. Billy and I both think she has mixed the name up with Sabrina the Teenage Witch and Sylvanian bunnies, but Mabel considers it to be perfect.

Kissed Billy’s hot little cheek, all snuggled in with Mario, Horsio and Puffles One and Two, at which Mabel raised her head, said, ‘Lovely weather we’re havin’,’ then lay back down again.

I watched them, touching their soft cheeks, listening to their snorty breathing – then, the fatal thought ‘If only . . .’ invaded my head without warning. ‘If only . . .’ Darkness, memories, sorrow rearing up, engulfing me like a tsunami.

10 p.m.
Just rushed back downstairs to the kitchen. Worse: everything silent, forlorn, empty. ‘If only . . .’ Stoppit. Can’t afford to do this. Switch on the kettle. Don’t go over to the dark side.

10.01 p.m.
Doorbell! Thank God! But who can it possibly be at this time of night?

PLENTY OF FUCKWITS

Thursday 18 April 2013 (continued)

10.45 p.m.
Was Tom and Jude, both completely plastered, stumbling into the hallway giggling.

‘Can we use your laptop? We were just in Dirty Burger and—’

‘I’s trying to do PlentyofFish on my iPhone and we can’t get it to download a photo from Google so . . .’ Jude clattered down the stairs into the kitchen in her high heels and work suit, while Tom, still dark, buff, handsome and fabulously gay, kissed me extravagantly.

‘Mwah! Bridget! You’ve lost SO much weight!’

(He’s said this every time he’s seen me for the last fifteen years, even when I was nine months pregnant.)

‘’Ere, have you got any wine?’ Jude yelled upstairs from the kitchen.

Turns out Jude – who now practically runs the City, but has continued to translate her love of the financial roller coaster into her love life – was spotted yesterday on an Internet-dating site by her horrible ex: Vile Richard.