Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy (36 page)

Boys were running around setting up the instruments and music stands, all excited. Then Jeremiah and Bikram shouted, ‘Billy!’ and he looked up hopefully at me. ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘I’ll bring the stuff.’

As I watched him go, I saw the parents laying out their picnics on the lawn next to the lake. No one was alone. They were all in lovely couples which had presumably not been formed on Match.com or PlentyofFish or Twitter, but in the days when people still did meet each other in real life. Started disastrously imagining being there with Mark again, on time because he’d driven the car and operated the satnav, carrying a modest amount of stuff which Mark would have edited before departure, all holding hands, Billy and Mabel between us. And we’d be together, the four of us, on the rug instead of—

‘Did you bring the kitchen table?’

I turned. Mr Wallaker looked unexpectedly glamorous in black
suit trousers and a white shirt, slightly unbuttoned. He was looking towards the house, adjusting his cufflinks. ‘Want a hand with all that?’

‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I said as a Tupperware box fell out of the basket, spilling egg sandwiches onto the grass.

‘Leave it,’ he ordered. ‘Give me the bassoon. I’ll get someone to bring the rest down. Got anyone to sit with?’

‘Please don’t speak to me like I’m one of your schoolboys,’ I said. ‘I’m not Bridget No-Mates Darcy and I’m not helpless and I can carry a picnic basket and just because you’ve got everything under control, and all lakes and orchestras, it doesn’t mean—’

There was a crash on the terrace. An entire section of music stands fell over, sending a cello bouncing off the terrace and down the hill, followed by a shrieking bunch of boys.

‘Totally under control,’ he said, giving a little snort of amusement as a double bass and a tuba crashed over next, bringing more music stands with them. ‘Better go. Give me that.’ He took the bassoon and set off towards the house. ‘Oh, and by the way, your dress,’ he called over his shoulder.

‘Yes?’

‘Slightly see-through with the sun behind it.’

I looked down at the dress. Oh, fuck, it
was
see-through.

‘Good effect,’ he shouted, without looking back.

I stared after him, indignant, confused. He was just . . . just . . . sexist. He was reducing me to a helpless
sex object
and . . . he was married and . . . just . . . just . . .

I started to pick up the basket when a man in a waiter’s outfit appeared and said, ‘I’ve been asked to carry these down for you, madam,’ and another voice called, ‘Bridget!’ It was Farzia Seth, Bikram’s mum. ‘Come and sit with us!’

It was fine, because the husbands all sat on one side talking about business, so we girls could gossip, occasionally shoving food into overexcited offspring who swooped on us like seagulls.

When it was time for the concert, Nicolette, who was, naturally, Chair of the Concert Committee, started the proceedings with an
astonishingly sycophantic speech about Mr Wallaker: ‘Inspiring, invigorating,’ etc., etc.

‘Arousing. Ejaculating. She’s changed her tune a bit since he came up with the stately home,’ muttered Farzia.

‘Is it his stately home?’ I said.

‘I dunno. He fixed it, anyway. And Nicolette’s been completely up his arse ever since. Wonder what the orange wife makes of it.’

As Nicolette finally drew to a close, Mr Wallaker jumped onto the terrace and strode in front of the band, silencing the applause.

‘Thank you,’ he said with a slight smile. ‘I must say I agree with every word. And now – the reason you’re here. I give you – Your. Sensational. Sons.’

And with that he raised his baton, the Big Swing Band burst into an enthusiastic – if slightly out of tune – flourish, and they were off. It was actually completely magical, the light softening, the music ringing out over the grounds.

The performance of ‘The Age of Aquarius’ by the recorder ensemble did not, it’s true,
entirely
lend itself to six-year-olds on recorders. We were all giggling helplessly, but I was glad to be giggling. Billy was one of the littlest ones, on near the end, and by the time it got to his turn I was beside myself with nerves. I watched him walk over to the piano with his music, looking so small and scared, and I just wanted to go and scoop him up. Then Mr Wallaker strode over, whispered something to Billy and sat down at the piano.

I didn’t know Mr Wallaker could play. He started with a surprisingly professional jazz introduction, and nodded to Billy to begin. Although there were no words, I could hear every one of them as Billy puffed his way painfully through ‘I’d Do Anything’, Mr Wallaker gently following every wrong note and wobble.

I would, Billy, I would do anything for you, I thought, tears welling up. My little boy, with all his struggles.

Applause broke out. Mr Wallaker whispered to Billy and glanced at me. Billy was bursting with pride.

Fortunately Eros and Atticus were taking the stand to perform their own adaptation of ‘The Trout Quintet’ on their flutes, bending and swooping in a pretentious manner which pulled me back from self-congratulatory and existentially despairing tears to suppressed hysteria again. And then it was all over and Billy rushed up, beaming, for a hug and then ran off with his little gang.

It was a warm, liquidy night: beautiful, romantic. The other parents drifted off, wandering down to the lake hand in hand. I sat on the rug on my own for a bit, wondering what to do. I was desperate for a drink, but driving. I realized the bag with the Diet Cokes and oatmeal cookies had got left behind. Glanced at Billy. He was still tearing around with his gang, all biffing each other over the head. I headed up to the bushes, found the bag and looked back at the scene.

Slowly, a huge, orange harvest moon was rising over the woods. Couples were laughing together in their evening clothes, hugging their joint offspring, remembering all the shared years which had brought them there.

I stepped into the bushes where no one could see and wiped away a tear, taking a giant slurp of Diet Coke and wishing it was neat vodka. They were growing up. They weren’t babies any more. It was all going so fast. I realized I was not just sad, but scared: scared of trying not to get lost driving in the dark, scared of all the years ahead of doing this alone: concerts, prize-givings, Christmases, teenagers, problems . . .

‘You can’t even get plastered, can you?’

Mr Wallaker’s shirt looked very white in the moonlight. His profile, half in silhouette, looked almost noble.

‘You all right?’

‘Yes!’ I said indignantly, wiping my fist across my eyes. ‘Why do you keep BURSTING up on me? Why do you keep asking me if I’m all right?’

‘I know when a woman is foundering and pretending not to be.’

He took a step closer. The air was heavy with jasmine, roses.

I breathed unsteadily. It felt as though we were being drawn together by the moon. He reached out, like I was a child, or a Bambi or something, and touched my hair.

‘There aren’t any nits in here, are there?’ he said.

I raised my face, heady with the scent of him, feeling the roughness of his cheek against mine, his lips against my skin . . . then suddenly I remembered all those creepy married guys on the websites and burst out:

‘What are you DOING??? Just because I’m on my own, it doesn’t mean I’m, I’m DESPERATE and FAIR GAME. You’re MARRIED! “Oh, oh, I’m Mr Wallaker. I’m all married and perfect,” and what do you mean, “FOUNDERING”? And I know I’m a rubbish mother and single but you don’t have to rub my nose in it and—’

‘Billy!!!!!! Your mummy’s kissing Mr Wallaker!’

Billy, Bikram and Jeremiah burst out from the bushes.

‘Ah, Billy!’ Mr Wallaker said. ‘Your mummy’s just, er, hurt herself and—’

‘Did she hurt her mouth?’ said Billy, looking puzzled, at which Jeremiah, who had older brothers, spurted out laughing.

‘Ah! Mr Wallaker! I was looking for you!’

Oh GOD. Now it was Nicolette.

‘I was wondering if we should say a few words to the parents, to— Bridget! What are
you
doing here?’

‘Looking for some oatmeal cookies!’ I said brightly.

‘In the bushes? How odd.’

‘Can I have one? Can I have one?’ The boys, mercifully, started yelling and dive-bombing my bag, so I could bend down, covering my confusion.

‘I mean, I thought it would be nice to
round things off
,’ Nicolette went on. ‘People want to see you, Mr Wallaker. And
hear
you. I think you’re
fiercely
talented, I really do.’

‘Not sure a speech is quite the thing right now. Maybe just go down there and case it out? Would you mind, Mrs Martinez?’

‘No, of course,’ said Nicolette coldly, giving me a funny look, just as Atticus ran up saying, ‘Mummeee, I want to see my therapiiiiiist!’

‘Right,’ said Mr Wallaker, when Nicolette and the boys had disappeared. ‘You’ve made yourself very clear. I apologize. I will go back, to not make a speech.’

He was starting to head off, then turned. ‘But just for the record, other people’s lives are not always as perfect as they appear, once you crack the shell.’

THE HORROR, THE HORROR

Friday 5 July 2013

Dating sites checked 5, winks 0, messages 0, likes 0, online shopping sites visited 12, words of rewrite written 0.

9.30 a.m.
Humph. OhMyGod. Well. Humph. ‘Foundering’? Man-whore. Lecherous sexist married bastard. Humph. Right. Must get on with Hedda-ing up – i.e. finding all of Hedda’s lines in the rewritten version and putting them back to the way they were in the first place. Which is actually quite fun!

9.31 a.m.
The thing about Internet dating is, the minute you start feeling lonely, confused or desperate you can simply click on one of the sites and it’s like a sweetie shop! There are just millions of other quite plausible people all actually available, at least in theory. Have vision of offices up and down the country full of people pretending to work but clicking on Match.com and OkCupid and somehow getting through the lonely tedium of the day. Right, must get on.

10.31 a.m.
Oh God. What was he DOING, Mr Wallaker? Does he do that all the time? It’s completely unprofessional.

What did he mean, ‘foundering’?

10.35 a.m.
Just looked up foundering: ‘to proceed in confusion’.

Humph. Am going to go back online.

10.45 a.m.
Just logged on:

0 people winked at you. 0 people chose you as their favourite.
0 people sent you a message.

Great.

11 a.m.
Look at all these men-tarts.
Married, but in an open relationship.
You see?

12.15 p.m.
Jude’s Internet dating was a nightmare – strings of communication with strangers suddenly left unanswered. I don’t want strange bits of men all over the place. Far better to get on with
Leaves
. Must figure out how the yacht/honeymoon could work in Sweden rather than Hawaii. I mean, Stockholm is warm in the summer, right? Doesn’t one of the girls from Abba live on an island off Stockholm?

12.30 p.m.
Maybe will go on Net-a-Porter and look at the sale.

12.45 p.m.
What is happening to me? Just put three dresses into my shopping basket. Then logged off. Then logged on again and realized I felt hurt because none of the dresses had winked back.

1 p.m.
Maybe will just look at cute thirty-year-olds on Match.com for a minute.

Mmmm.

1.05 p.m.
Just spooled down the line of cute thirty-year-olds and screamed out loud.

There, bold as you please, was a picture of . . . Roxster.

MID-MATCH COLLISION

Friday 5 July 2013 (continued)

‘Roxster30’ was grinning cheerfully, the same picture he has on Twitter. He is, apparently, looking for women aged twenty-five to fifty-five – so it wasn’t because I was too old, it was just because he didn’t . . . he didn’t . . . OH MY GOD. His profile says he has ‘particular fondness for walks on Hampstead Heath’ and ‘people who make me laugh’ and . . . ‘mini-breaks in pubs by rivers, with Full English Breakfasts’. And he really likes skydiving? SKYDIVING?

I mean, it’s OK, isn’t it? It’s just what people do? It’s quite funny, it’s . . .

Suddenly doubled over in pain, in my armchair, over the laptop.

1.10 p.m.
Roxster is Online Now! But then I’m Online Now too! Oh God.

1.11 p.m.
Quickly logged off and paced deranged around the room, stuffing bits of half-eaten cheese and crushed Nutribars from the bottom of my handbag into my mouth.

What am I to do? What is the etiquette? Cannot possibly log on again and have another look at Roxster, or he will think I am stalking him, or worse – better? – looking at pictures of cute thirty-year-olds to smoothly replace him with another toy boy.

1.15 p.m.
Just checked my email which is now, of course, as well as being overrun by Ocado emails, and ‘Staff Present’ emails, and emails from various country pubs I have imagined staying in with Roxster, also inundated with endless emails from SingleParentMix.com and OkCupid and Match.com saying: Wow! You’re proving popular today!
and Someone just checked out your profile! and Jonesey49 Someone just winked at you.

Stared closely at two recent emails from Match.com. Jonesey49 Wow! Someone just checked out your profile.

1.17 p.m.
Could not find out who they were from because have not paid to properly sign on to Match.com. One of them was from someone aged fifty-nine. And the other aged thirty. It had to be Roxster. It was too much of a coincidence.

1.20 p.m.
Wow! Jonesey49. Somebody just winked at you! Again aged thirty.

1.25 p.m.
Clearly, Roxster has clocked that I have checked out his profile. What am I going to do? Pretend it hasn’t happened? No, that’s just . . . I mean, the whole thing is just . . . You can’t pretend something like that hasn’t happened, can you? We’re human beings and we did care about each other, I thought. And . . . text from Roxster: