Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy (24 page)

‘Basically we think the whole tone and the updating of the Hedda story is great,’ Imogen was saying.

‘The Hedda
character
,’ added George tersely. Imogen coloured slightly, seeming to take this as some kind of rebuke, then continued: ‘We think the idea of a woman dissatisfied with her lot, and torn between a sensible-choice husband and a wildly creative—’

‘Exactly, exactly,’ I said as the phone vibrated again. ‘I mean, even though it was a long time ago, women are still making these decisions. And I think Queen’s Park has exactly the sort of—’

Glanced furtively at the text. Roxster!

‘Right, right, what we’re thinking is – we set it in Hawaii,’ George interrupted.

‘HAWAII?’ I said.

‘Yes.’

Realizing this might be a crucial juncture, I gathered my courage, and added: ‘Although, it is meant to be more Norwegian. So like, in
November, all dark and miserable, in a dark, depressing house in Queen’s Park.’

‘It could be Kauai,’ said Imogen encouragingly. ‘It rains all the time there.’

‘So instead of being in, like, a dark depressing house it’s—’

‘On a yacht!’ said Imogen. ‘We want to bring in a sort of 60s/70s glamorous feel.’

‘Like
The Pink Panther
,’ interjected Damian.

‘You mean it’s going to be a cartoon?’ I said, furtively texting under the desk.

‘No, no, you know, like the original
Pink Panther
with David Niven and Peter Sellers,’ said Imogen.

‘Wasn’t that set in Paris and Gstaad?’

‘Well, yes, but it’s the
feel
we’re after. The mood,’ said Imogen.

‘A yacht in Hawaii with a Paris/Gstaad sort of feel?’ I said.

‘Where it’s raining,’ said Imogen.

‘Dark, dark, cloudy skies,’ added Damian.

I slumped. The whole thing was meant to be about everything being disappointing and shabby. But, importantly, as Brian the Agent says, if you’re a screenwriter you don’t want to be sort of a nuisance.

The phone vibrated. Roxster.

‘So . . .’ said George. ‘Hedda is Kate Hudson.’

‘Right, right.’ I nodded, writing ‘Kate Hudson’ in my iPhone notes and quickly texting while trying not to think about Roxster’s head up my dress.

‘The boring husband is Leonardo DiCaprio and then the alcoholic ex is . . .?’

‘Heath Ledger,’ Damian said quickly.

‘But he’s dead,’ said Imogen just as Roxster texted:

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah,’ Damian was saying. ‘Not Heath Ledger but someone
like
Heath Ledger only . . .’

‘Not dead?’ said Imogen, staring at Damian coldly. ‘Colin Farrell?’

‘Yup,’ said George. ‘I can see that. I can see Colin Farrell. If he’s on the straight and narrow, which I think he is. So what about the other girl?’

‘The friend – the one Hedda Gabbler was at school with?’ said Imogen. The phone vibrated.

‘Alicia Silverstone,’ said Damian. ‘It should be like
Clueless
.’

‘Nope,’ said George.

‘No,’ Damian disagreed with himself.

‘You know what?’ George was looking thoughtful. ‘Hedda could be more of a Cameron Diaz. What about Bradley Cooper for boring husband?’

‘Mmm! Yes!’ I said. ‘But isn’t Bradley Cooper quite sex—’

‘Jude Law in
Anna Karenina,
’ concurred Imogen, with a knowing smile. ‘Or cast the whole piece older and have George Clooney playing against type?’

Felt in some strange twilight world where we were just bandying about incredibly famous people, who would have absolutely no interest in being in it at all. Why would Cosmata’s mother think that nits and sick germs could hop from the pavement into the front door and why would George Clooney want to be in an updated version of
Hedda Gabbler
, set on a yacht in Hawaii, playing against type, written by me?

‘What if she doesn’t die?’ said George, getting to his feet and starting to walk around. ‘She dies, right, in the book?’

‘The play,’ said Imogen.

‘But that’s the whole point,’ I said.

‘Yeah, but if it’s a romcom?’

‘It’s not a romcom, it’s a tragedy,’ I said, then immediately regretted my presumptuousness.

The phone vibrated again. Chloe.

‘She shoots herself,’ said Imogen.

‘Shoots herself?
Shoots herself?
’ said George. ‘Who does that?’

‘But you can’t say “Who does that?” about someone shooting themselves,’ Imogen was saying.

‘That’s exactly what they say! In the original play!’ I said, trying to overcome feelings of annoyance with Cosmata’s mother. ‘“Good God! People don’t do things like that!”’

There was a silence. I knew I’d said completely the wrong thing.

Imogen was looking daggers at me. I had to stop looking at the texts and CONCENTRATE. I was clearly in the middle of some incredibly complex power struggle, which I didn’t fully understand, and one or other of the children would have to remain abandoned and Roxster’s food obsession unsatisfied. Imogen had supported me over the fact that you couldn’t question whether people shot themselves or not – because clearly they do sometimes and not just in plays – but then I, instead of supporting her in her support, had supported George by saying that his views were supported by the opinions of . . .

‘I mean, I agree with you, Imogen,’ I said. ‘People shoot themselves all the time. Not actually all the time, but they do shoot themselves sometimes. Look at, look at, um.’ I looked wildly around for inspiration, wishing I could google ‘Modern Celebrities Who Have Shot Themselves’. Instead I quickly texted Chloe:

‘Right,’ said George, sitting down again, in an important, businesslike way. ‘So. We’ll give you a couple of days. No Kate Hudson shooting herself. It’s a comedy. It’s the comedy we like.’

I stared at George aghast.
The Leaves in His Hair
is not a comedy. It is a tragedy. Had the tragedy in my writing somehow inadvertently come out as comic? The fact that Hedda Gabbler shoots herself is fundamental. But, as Brian said, in the movie business, artistic integrity has to go together with pragmatism and . . . There was another text from Roxster!

Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea. Suddenly the previously mentioned
Pink Panther
concept combined with Roxster’s ‘Nits’ suggestion triggered a brilliant notion in my mind.

‘What about
Tom and Jerry
?’ I burst out. George, who had now opened the door to leave, stopped in his tracks and looked back.

‘I mean,
Tom and Jerry
is a comedy, but terrible things happen to both Tom and Jerry. I mean, more Tom – he gets flattened, he gets electrocuted, yet somehow . . .’

‘He always comes back to life!’ said Imogen, smiling at me.

‘You mean she’s resuscitated?’ said George.

‘Like
Fool’s Gold
meets
ER
meets
The Passion of the Christ
!’ enthused Damian, adding hurriedly, ‘but without the Jewish controversy.’

‘Try it, send us the rewrite by Thursday and see how it comes off the page,’ said George in his deep voice. ‘Right, I’ve gotta go. I’ve got a conference call.’

The phone vibrated. Roxster:

Once euphoric farewells were made – ‘You did
really
well in there! I love your dress’ – and hugs exchanged, whilst I tried to keep my head oddly at an angle because of the nits (I mean, what if they got in Damian’s lopsided haircut?), I sat down in reception and looked at my latest texts.

Chloe:

Roxster:

Instead of processing the whole meeting, calling Brian to get him to get them to give me more time, then rushing home to see how Billy is, and having a serious think about telling Chloe she has to make decisions herself if I am in important meetings, I replied to Roxster with a complete list of every item of food in the meeting, adding:

NITS IN THE WORKS

Tuesday 23 April 2013

Minutes spent writing script 0, minutes spent dealing with people’s nits instead of getting on with work 507, people whom family might have infested with nits (including Tom, Jude, all Jude’s recent dates, Talitha, Roxster, Arkis, Sergei, Grazina the Cleaner, Chloe, Brian the Agent – but only if nits can get down phone – and entire Greenlight Productions team) 23 (not counting people above people might have infested with nits).

9.30 a.m.
Right. This is my first official rewriting day on
The Leaves in His Hair
. Feel marvellous and proud! Almost like it was just a sort of hobby before but now it is real.

10.05 a.m.
Grrr. This is really quite difficult, though. Don’t want to be a Prima Donna, but setting
Hedda Gabbler
on a yacht in Hawaii is somehow changing the mood and meaning of the whole piece. It brings up all sorts of difficulties, which weren’t there with the terrace house in Queen’s Park. Ooh, goody. Text!

10.45 a.m.
Was Tom.

Freaked out, I texted back: – but even as I texted, my head started to itch.

Tom again.

Paroxysms of guilt. Tom sleeping with Arkis is the product of months of discussion and strategizing and I have potentially ruined it!

11 a.m.
Just texted Tom list of nit products, combs, etc., offered to nit-comb him if he wanted to come round.

11.15 a.m.
Jude just rang, talking in a wobbly, sepulchral voice.

‘Vile Richard has blocked Isabella.’

‘Who’s Isabella?’

‘The made-up girl on PlentyofFish.com, remember? She stood him up on Saturday and now . . .’

Jude was really upset.

‘What?’

‘Vile Richard replaced his profile with a message saying he’s no longer available because he’s met someone else. I just feel really, really hurt, Bridget. How could he meet someone else so quickly?’

Tried to explain to Jude that Isabella wasn’t real, and Vile Richard clearly hadn’t met someone else, he was just trying to get back at Isabella for standing him up, even though Isabella didn’t exist, at which Jude seemed to brighten and said: ‘The guy I met on Saturday was nice, though, you know the one from the dance-lover site. Though he hates dancing. He says they must have passed his profile on from a snowboarding site.’

At least she didn’t mention anything about nits.

Noon.
Right. Now Jude is all calm and happy again, will get on with
The Leaves in His Hair.

The trouble is, people don’t LIVE on yachts, do they? Or maybe they do? Like people who live on barges on the canal. But don’t yacht-type people live in big houses and just go on holiday on the yachts? And, more to the point, honeymoons.

12.15 p.m.
Texted Talitha.

Talitha texted back.

12.30 p.m.
Another text from Talitha.

Oh God. Talitha’s hair extensions! Can you nit-comb hair extensions?

Just had another text from Jude.

4.15 p.m.
Shit! Shit! There is bang, clatter and voices of everyone coming home.

5 p.m.
Mabel burst in, holding out a letter. She sat down on the sofa and sobbed, big tears dribbling down her cheeks.

To all Infants Branch Parents

A child in Briar Rose . . .

Why do all the class names in Infants sound like the sort of Cotswold holiday cottages I keep googling instead of writing
The Leaves in His Hair
?

. . . has been found to be infested with head lice. Please obtain
suitable nit comb and products and check your children carefully before bringing them to school.

‘Ith me,’ sobbed Mabel. ‘I’s infestered Briar Rose with headlies. I’m “a child in Briar Rose”.’

‘It isn’t you,’ I said, hugging her and probably reinfestering her, or vice versa, with headlies. ‘Cosmata has head lice. And we didn’t find any on you. Maybe they just put “a child” when they meant lots of people.’

Wednesday 24 April 2013

175 lb (feels like again), pieces of Nicorette chewed 29 (NB of smoking substitute, not Class Mother), Diet Cokes 4, Red Bulls 5 (terrible, am practically on ceiling), packets of grated cheese 2, slices of rye bread 8, calories 4897, sleep 0, pages written 12. Humph.

12.30 p.m.
Right. There is absolutely no need to panic. If a story is sound, and has themes relevant to modern life, then the actual setting ought to be immaterial.

1 p.m.
Whole thing about Hedda and the boring husband going on a honeymoon not on a yacht and then coming back and living on a yacht seems completely nonsensical.

1.15 p.m.
Wish head would stop itching.