Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy (5 page)

And with a toss of her lush, shining locks Talitha settled back into her chair while the three of us stared at her silently, sucking our cocktails through our straws like five-year-olds.

Talitha burst out again, ‘The thing about not looking your age is, it’s all about altering the “signposts”. The body must be forced to reject the fat-positioning of middle age, wrinkles are completely unnecessary and a fine head of swingy shiny healthy hair—’

‘Purchased for a pittance from impoverished Indian virgins,’ interjected Tom.

‘—however obtained and attached, is all one needs to turn back the clock.’

‘Talitha,’ said Jude, ‘did I actually just hear you articulate the words “Middle” and “Age”?’

‘Anyway, I can’t,’ I said.

‘Look. This really makes me very sad,’ said Talitha. ‘Women of our age—’

‘Your age,’ muttered Jude.

‘—have only got themselves to blame if they brand themselves as unviable by going on and on about how they haven’t had a date for four years. Germaine Greer’s “Disappearing Woman” must be brutally murdered and buried. One needs, for the sake of oneself and one’s peers, to create an air of mysterious confidence and allure, rebranding oneself—’

‘Like Gwyneth Paltrow,’ said Tom brightly.

‘Gwyneth Paltrow is not “our age” and she’s married,’ said Jude.

‘No, I mean I can’t shag anyone,’ I elucidated. ‘It wouldn’t be fair on the kids. There’s too much to do, and men are very high-maintenance matters.’

Talitha surveyed me sorrowfully, my customary black loose-waisted trousers and long top swathing the ruins of what was once my figure. I mean, Talitha does have some authority to speak, having been
married three times and, ever since I first met her, never without some completely besotted man in tow.

‘A woman has her needs,’ Talitha growled dramatically. ‘What good is a mother to her poor children if she’s suffering from low self-esteem and sexual frustration? If you don’t get laid soon, you will literally close up. More importantly, you will shrivel. And you will become bitter.’

‘Anyway,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘It wouldn’t be fair to Mark.’

There was silence for a moment. It was as if a huge wet fish had been thrown into the high-spirited mood of the evening.

Later, though, Tom drunkenly followed me into the Ladies’, leaning against the wall for support as I flapped my hands around the designer tap trying to get it to turn on.

‘Bridget,’ said Tom, as I started groping under the washbasin for pedals.

I looked up from under the sink. ‘What?’

Tom had gone into professional mode again.

‘Mark. He would want you to find someone. He wouldn’t want you to stop—’

‘I haven’t stopped,’ I said, straightening up with some difficulty.

‘You need to work,’ he said. ‘You need to get a life. And you need someone to be with you and love you.’

‘I do have a life,’ I said gruffly. ‘And I don’t need a man, I have the children.’

‘Well, if nothing else, you need someone to show you how to turn taps on.’ He reached over to the square tap column and turned a bit of the base, at which water started gushing out. ‘Have a look on Goop,’ he said, suddenly changing back into funny, flippant Tom. ‘See what Gwyneth has to say about sex and French-style parenting!’

11.15 p.m.
Just said goodnight to Chloe, trying to conceal slight squiffiness.

‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ I mumbled sheepishly.

‘Five minutes?’ she said, wrinkling her nose, kindly. ‘Glad you had a bit of fun!’

11.45 p.m.
In bed now. Tellingly, am wearing, instead of usual pyjamas with dogs on, which match the children’s, the only vaguely sexual nightie I can still get into. Suddenly have surge of hopeful feeling. Maybe Talitha is right! If I shrivel and become bitter, then what use will that be to the children? They will become child-centric, demanding King Babies: and I a negative, rasping old fool, lunging at sherry, roaring, ‘WHY DON’T YOU DO ANYTHING FOR MEEEEEEEEE?’

11.50 p.m.
Maybe have been going through long dark tunnel, which there is light at the end of. Maybe someone could love me? Is no reason why could not bring a man back here. I could put a hook inside bedroom door, so the children wouldn’t walk in on ‘us’, creating an adult, sensual world of . . . gaaah! Cry from Mabel.

11.52 p.m.
Rushed into kids’ room to see fluffy-headed figure in bottom bunk, sitting up, then quickly bending over, flat-pack style, which is what she always does as she is not supposed to wake up in the night. Mabel then sat straight up again, looked down at her pyjamas, which belched diarrhoea, opened her mouth and was sick.

11.53 p.m.
Lifted Mabel into the bath and removed PJs, trying not to retch.

11.54 p.m.
Washed and dried Mabel, sat her on floor, then went to find new PJs, remove sheets and attempt to locate clean sheets.

Midnight.
Crying from kids’ room. Still carrying diarrhoea sheets,
diverted to room, only to hear rival crying emerging from bathroom. Considered wine. Reminded self am responsible mother, not slapper in All Bar One.

12.01 a.m.
Flapped in fugue-like state between kids’ room and bathroom. Level of bathroom-crying notched up. Rushed in, assuming Mabel consuming Bic razor, poison or similar, to find her pooing on the floor with expression both guilty and startled.

Overwhelmed by love for Mabel. Picked her up. Diarrhoea and sick now not only on sheets, bathmat, Mabel, etc., but also on vaguely sexual nightie.

12.07 a.m.
Went to kids’ room, still holding Mabel, plus diarrhoea ensemble, to find Billy out of bed, hair all hot and messy, looking up as if I was benign God with answer to all things. Billy held my gaze, whilst belching sick in manner of
Exorcist
except head remained in forward stationary position instead of spinning round and round.

12.08 a.m.
Diarrhoea erupted onto Billy’s PJs. Billy’s bewildered expression overwhelmed self with love for Billy. Ended up in diarrhoea/vomit-filled California-style ‘group hug’ embracing Billy, Mabel and diarrhoea sheets, bathmat, PJs and vaguely sexual nightie.

12.10 a.m.
Wished Mark was here. Had sudden flashback to Mark in his lawyerly dressing gown at night, the glimpse of hairy chest, the sudden flashes of humour at baby chaos, getting all military trying to organize us all, as if it was some sort of cross-border situation, then realizing the absurdity of it all, and both of us ending up giggling.

He’s missing all the little moments, I thought. Missing his own children growing up. Even this would have been funny instead of confusing and scary. One of us could have stayed with them and the
other done the sheets, then we could have got into bunk beds again and giggled about it and . . . how could anyone else ever delight in them and love them as he would have, even when they are pooing everywhere and . . .?

12.15 a.m.
‘Mummy!’ Billy jerked self back to reality. Was difficult situation, undeniably: everyone poo- and sick-smeared, alarmed and retching. Ideal would be to separate children and fabrics/fluids and put both children in warm bath and find sheets. But what if pooing/vomiting continued? What then? Water could become toxic, and possibly cholera-filled, like open sewer in refugee camp.

12.16 a.m.
Arrived at makeshift solution: placing plastic mat on bathroom floor with pillows, towels, etc. generally around.

12.20 a.m.
Resolved to go down to washing machine (i.e. fridge to get wine).

12.24 a.m.
Closed door and ran down.

12.27 a.m.
Having cleared head with swig of wine, realized was immaterial washing sheets, etc. Only essential objective, surely, was to keep children alive until morning, ideally simultaneously avoiding nervous breakdown.

12.45 a.m.
Realized wine, though fortifying head, had done opposite to stomach.

12.50 a.m.
Threw up.

2 a.m.
Billy and Mabel both now asleep on bathroom floor on and under towels, cleaned to a degree. Resolve simply to sleep next to them in poo- and sick-covered vaguely sexual nightie.

2.05 a.m.
Experiencing pleasing sense of triumph, like general who has brought massacre, bloodbath, etc. back from brink, engineering peaceful solution: even starting to hear theme tune from
Gladiator
, seeing self as Russell Crowe, partially obscured by caption: ‘A Hero Will Rise’.

At same time, however, am unable to avoid sense that attempting any sort of erotic scenario with this sort of thing going on might not be a particularly good idea.

A NEW START – A NEW ME

Friday 20 April 2012

173lb, minutes set aside for meditation 20, minutes spent meditating 0.

2 p.m.
Right. Have made a decision. Am going to completely change. Am going to return to Zen/New Age/self-help-book study and yoga, etc., starting from the inside not the outside, meditate regularly, and lose weight. Have got all set up with candle and yoga mat in bathroom and am going to quietly meditate and settle mind before taking kids to doctors, remembering to allow time to a) get snacks and b) locate missing car keys.

Also the other things am going to do are as follows:

I WILL

*Lose 30lb.

*Get on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and WhatsApp instead of feeling old and out of it because everyone except self is on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and WhatsApp.

*Stop being scared of turning on the television but instead simply locate and read instruction manuals for TV, Virgin box DVD remotes and buttons, so that TV becomes source of entertainment and pleasure rather than meltdown.

*Do regular Life Laundry, cleansing house of all unnecessary possessions, esp. cupboard under stairs, so is a place for everything and everything in its place in manner of Buddhist Zendo/Martha Stewart’s house.

*With above in mind, ask Mum to stop sending me unused handbags, ‘stoles’, Wedgwood ‘tureens’, etc., reminding her that age of rationing ended some time ago and is now space rather than possessions which is in short supply (at least in Western urban world).

*Start writing my
Hedda Gabbler
adaptation in order to have professional adult life again.

*Actually write said screenplay instead of spending half day setting off to look for something then wandering vaguely from room to room worrying about unanswered emails, texts, bills, play dates, go-kart parties, leg waxes, doctors’ appointments, parents’ evenings, babysitting schedules, strange noise from fridge, cupboard under stairs, reason why telly won’t work, then sitting down again realizing have forgotten what was looking for in the first place.

*Not wear same three things all the time, but instead go through wardrobe and put together fashionable ‘looks’ based on celebrities at airports.

*Clear cupboard under stairs.

*Find out why fridge is making that noise.

*Go on email for one hour only per day instead of spending entire day in helpless cyber-circle of email, news stories, Calendar, Google and shopping and holiday websites whilst texting, then not answering any of emails anyway.

*Not add Twitter, Facebook, WhatsApp and whatever to cyber-circle when have got on them.

*Deal with emails immediately and so that email becomes effective means of communication instead of terrifying Unexploded Email Inbox full of guilt trips and undetonated time-vampire bombs.

*Be better at looking after the children than Chloe the nanny.

*Establish regular routine with children so everyone knows where they are and what supposed to be doing, esp. self.

*Read parenting self-help books, including
One, Two, Three . . . Better, Easier Parenting
and
French Children Don’t Throw Food
in order to be better at looking after the children than Chloe.

*Be kinder to Talitha, Jude, Tom and Magda in return for their kindness to me.

*Go to Pilates once a week, Zumba twice a week, gym three times a week and yoga four times a week.

I WILL NOT

*Drink so much Diet Coke before yoga that entire yoga session becomes exercise in trying not to fart.

*Ever be late for school run.

*Do V-signs at people during school run.

*Get annoyed by dishwasher, tumble dryer and microwave beeping in attention-seeking manner to tell you they have finished, wasting time crossly imitating dishwasher by dancing round saying, ‘Oh, oh, look at me, I’m a dishwasher, I’ve washed the dishes.’

*Get annoyed with Mum, Una or Perfect Nicolette.

*Call Nicolette ‘Nicorette’.

*Chew more than ten pieces of Nicorette per day.

*Hide empty wine bottles from Chloe.

*Eat grated cheese straight out of the fridge, dropping it all over the floor.

*Be shouty or snarly with the children but talk in calm, even, electronic-person-on-voicemail-type voice at all times.

*Drink more than one can (each) of Red Bull and Diet Coke a day.

*Drink more than two non-decaf cappuccinos a day. Or three.