Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy (9 page)

The not-a-retirement community is built around a grand Victorian mansion, almost a stately home. As described on the website, it has a lake, grounds which ‘boast a variety of rare wildlife’ (i.e. squirrels), ‘BRASSERIE 120’ (the bar/bistro), ‘CRAVINGS’ (the more formal restaurant) and ‘CHATS’ (the coffee bar), plus function rooms (for meetings: not toilets), ‘guest suites’ for visiting families, a collection of ‘superbly appointed’ houses and bungalows, and, crucially, ‘an Italianate garden designed by Russell Page in 1934’.

On top of this lot there is ‘VIVA’, the fitness facility – with pool, spa, gym, beauty salon and hairdresser, and fitness classes – the source of most of the trouble.

‘Bridget? Are you still there? You’re not wallowing in it, are you?’

‘Yes! No!’ I said, attempting the bright, positive tones of someone who is not wallowing in anything.

‘Bridget. You’re wallowing. I can tell from your voice.’

Grrr. I know Mum did go through a dark time after Dad died. The lung cancer took him in six months from diagnosis to funeral. The only positive thing was that Dad did get to hold newborn Billy in his arms, just before he died. It was really hard for Mum when Una still had Geoffrey. Una and Geoffrey had been Mum and Dad’s best friends for fifty-five years and, as they never tired of telling me, had known me since I was running round the lawn with no clothes on. But after Geoffrey’s heart attack there was no holding Mum and Una back. If they feel it now, Mum about Dad, or Una about Geoffrey, they rarely show it. There’s something about that wartime generation which gives them the capacity to just cheerfully soldier on. Maybe something to do with the powdered eggs and whale-meat fritters.

‘You don’t want to mope around when you’re widowed, darling. You want to have fun! Why don’t you come over and jump in the sauna with Una and me?’

It was kindly meant, but what did she imagine I was going to do? Run out of the house, abandon the children, drive for an hour and a half, rip off my clothes, have my hair bouffed, then ‘jump in the sauna’?

‘So! Christmas! Una and I were wondering, are you going to come to us or . . .’

(Have you noticed how when people are giving you two options, the second one is always the one they want you to do?)

‘. . . Well, the thing is, darling, there’s the St Oswald’s cruise this year! And we wondered if you might like to come? With the children of course! It’s to the Canaries, but it’s not all old people, you know. There are some very “with-it” places they visit.’

‘Right, right, a cruise, great,’ I said, suddenly thinking that if the Obesity Clinic had made me feel thin, maybe an over-seventies cruise might make me feel young.

Mind, however, now also contained image of me chasing Mabel along a cruise-liner deck through a morass of bouffed hairdos and electric wheelchairs.

‘You’ll be perfectly at home, because it’s actually for over-fifties,’ Mum added, unknowingly putting the kibosh on the plan in a microsecond.

‘Well, actually, we think we might have plans here! You’re welcome to join us, of course, but it’ll be chaos, and if the other option is a cruise in hot weather, then—’

‘Oh, no, darling. We don’t want to leave you at Christmas. Una and I would love to come to you! It’d be super having Christmas with the little ones, it’s such a hard time for us both.’

Gaaah! How could I possibly handle Mum, Una and the kids, with no help as Chloe was going on a t’ai chi retreat to Goa with Graham? Did not want it to end up like last year, with me trying to stop my heart from breaking into pieces at doing Santa without Mark and sobbing behind the kitchen counter, whilst Mum and Una squabbled over lumps in the gravy and commented on my parenting and housekeeping, as if, rather than inviting them for Christmas, I had called them in as Systems Analysts.

‘Let me think about it,’ I said.

‘Well, the thing is, darling, we have to reserve the berths by tomorrow.’

‘Go ahead and book it for just you, Mum. Honestly, because I haven’t worked out—’

‘Well, you can cancel with fourteen days’ notice,’ she said.

‘OK, then,’ I said. ‘OK.’

Great, an over-fifties cruise for Christmas. Everything looks so dark and gloomy.

11 p.m.
Was still wearing my prescription sunglasses. That’s better.

Maybe I have just been like a wave building momentum and now I have crashed and another will come along soon! For as it says in
Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus
, women are like waves and men are like rubber bands which ping away to their caves and come back.

Except mine didn’t come back.

11.15 p.m.
Look, stoppit. For, as it says on the Dalai Lama’s Twitter: <
@DalaiLama
We cannot avoid pain, we cannot avoid loss. Contentment comes from the ease and flexibility with which we move through change.>

Maybe will go to yoga and become more flexible.

Or maybe will go out with friends and get plastered.

A PLAN

Sunday 2 September 2012

Alcohol units 5 (but hard to tell with mojitos – maybe 500?).

‘It’s time,’ said Tom, settling into his fourth mojito in Quo Vadis. ‘We’re taking her to the Stronghold.’

The Stronghold has recently become a regular part of Tom’s micro-universe. Run by a client from his therapy practice, it is an illegal American-style speakeasy in Hoxton.

‘It’s like being in an incredibly well-directed music video,’ Tom enthused, eyes shining. ‘There’s every age group: young and old, black and white, gay and straight. Gwyneth’s been seen there! And it’s a “pop-up”.’

‘Oh, please,’ said Talitha. ‘How many minutes till the edginess of “pop-up” anything has popped down?’

‘Anyway,’ said Jude. ‘Who bothers to meet people in real life any more?’

‘But Jude, there are actual live people there. And Americana bands, and sofas – you can talk and dance, and make out with people.’

‘Why would you do all that before you’ve found out in one click whether they’re divorced or separated-with-kids, like bungee jumping more than going to the movies, know how to spell, know not to use the expression “lol” or “special lady” without irony, and whether they think the world would be a better place if people with low IQs were not allowed to reproduce?’

‘Well, at least you’ll know they’re not a photograph from fifteen years ago,’ said Tom.

‘We’re going,’ said Talitha.

Upshot is, we are off to the Stronghold in Hoxton on Thursday.

Wednesday 5 September 2012

Acts of screenplay written 2.5, attempts to find babysitter 5, babysitters found 0.

9.15 p.m.
Disaster. Forgot to ask Chloe about babysitting tomorrow, and she is going to watch Graham compete in the South of England t’ai chi semi-final.

‘I’d love to help, Bridget, but t’ai chi means an enormous amount to Graham. I can definitely do the school run on Friday morning, though, so you can sleep in.’

What am I going to do?

Cannot ask Tom as he is coming to the Stronghold, ditto Jude and Talitha, plus Talitha does not do children since she says she has done that and only uses hers if she needs a walker for charity auctions.

9.30 p.m.
Just called Mum.

‘Oh, darling, I’d love to but it’s the Viva Supper tomorrow! We’re doing Ham in Coca-Cola. Everyone is doing things in Coca-Cola now!’

Am slumped at kitchen table, trying not to think about everyone doing things in Coca-Cola in the Viva spa. It’s SO UNFAIR. Am trying my best to rediscover myself as a woman but now am up shit creek without a . . . Oh! What about Daniel?

A DANIEL IN SHINING ARMOUR

Wednesday 5 September 2012 (continued)

‘Jones, you little devil,’ growled Daniel when I called. ‘What are you wearing, what colour are your knickers and how are my godchildren?’

Daniel Cleaver, my former Emotional Fuckwit ‘boyfriend’ and Mark’s former arch-enemy, has, to his credit, really done his best to help since Mark was killed. After years of bitter one-upmanship, when Billy arrived the two of them finally made it up and Daniel is actually the children’s godfather.

Daniel’s best isn’t exactly everyone’s best: the last time he had them to stay, it turned out he just wanted to impress some girl by boasting that he had godchildren and . . . suffice it to say he dropped them off at school three hours late, and when I picked up Mabel later, her hair was in an incredibly complex plaited chignon.

‘Mabel, what fabulous hair!’ I said, imagining Daniel had brought John Frieda in to do full hair and make-up on Mabel at 7.30 a.m.

‘De teacher did it,’ said Mabel. ‘Daniel brushed my hair wid a fork,’ adding, ‘it had maple syrup on it.’

‘Jones? Are you still there, Jones?’

‘Yes,’ I said, startled.

‘Babysitting call, Jones?’

‘Would you . . .?’

‘Absolutely. When were you thinking?’

I cringed: ‘Tomorrow?’

There was a slight pause. Daniel was obviously doing something.

‘Tomorrow night is absolutely fine. I find myself at a loose end, having been rejected by all human women under the age of eighty-four.’ Awww.

‘We might be quite late, is that OK?’

‘My dear girl, I am nocturnal.’

‘You won’t . . . I mean, you won’t bring a model or—’

‘No, no, no, Jones. I shall
be
a model. A paragon of babysitting. Ludo. Wholesome vitamin-packed fare. And by the way . . .’

‘Yes?’ I said suspiciously.

‘What kind of knickers
are
you wearing? At this moment? Are they mummy pants? Mummy’s lovely mummy panties? Will you show them to Daddy tomorrow night?’

Still love Daniel, though obviously not to the point that I would get involved with any of his crap.

THE PERFECT BABYSITTER

Thursday 6 September 2012

133lb (v.g.), alcohol units 4, sexual encounters in last 5 years 0, sexual encounters in last 5 hours 2, embarrassing sexual encounters in last 5 hours 2.

The day of the Stronghold outing was upon us. Billy was wildly excited that Daniel was coming. ‘Will Amanda be here?’

‘Who’s Amanda?’

‘The lady with the big boobies who was there last time.’

‘No!’ I said. ‘Mabel, what are you looking for?’

‘My hairbrush,’ she said darkly.

Managed somehow in the excitement to get them bathed and asleep, and scrambled to get ready before Daniel arrived.

I had opted for jeans (a brand chillingly called
Not Your Daughter’s Jeans
) and a cowboy shirt, thinking it would fit in with the Americana theme.

Daniel arrived late, in his usual suit, hair shorter now, still gorgeous with that irresistible smile, bearing armfuls of unsuitable gifts – toy guns, semi-naked Barbies, giant bags of sweets, Krispy Kreme doughnuts – and a suspicious-looking half-hidden DVD, which I decided to ignore as I was cataclysmically late now.

‘Ding-dong! Jones,’ he said. ‘Have you been on a diet? I thought I’d never see you looking like this again.’

It’s horrifying how differently some people treat you when you’re fat, to when you’re not. And when you’re all done up and when you’re just normal. No wonder women are so insecure. I know men are too. But when one is a woman, with all the tools at a modern
woman’s disposal, one can literally look like a completely different person from one half-hour to the next.

Even then, you think you don’t look like you should. Sometimes look at billboards of beautiful models, and the real people underneath, and think it’s a bit like if we were on a planet where all the space creatures were short, green and fat. Except a very few of them were tall, thin and yellow. And all the advertising was of the tall, yellow ones, airbrushed to make them even taller and yellower. So all the little green space creatures spent their whole time feeling sad because they weren’t tall, thin and yellow.

‘Jones? Are you still inhabiting your head? I said, I suppose a fuck would be out of the question?’

‘Yes!’ I said, jerking back to the present. ‘Yes, it would. Though this is in no way a sign of my lack of gratitude for the babysit.’ Rattled through a gabble of instructions and thanks and shot out of the door, feeling outraged as a feminist by Daniel’s complex fattist pass, but uplifted as a female.

When I arrived at Talitha’s, however, Tom burst out laughing. ‘Seriously? Dolly Parton?’

‘You can’t rely on your arse in jeans at our age,’ said Talitha briskly, sweeping in with a tray of mojitos. ‘You’ve got to have something else going on.’

‘I don’t want to look like mutton,’ I said. ‘Or a prostitute.’

‘Well, quite, but you need something to start the idea of sexuality. Legs or boobs. Not both.’

‘What about one leg and one boob?’ said Tom.

Eventually I ended up in a very expensive short black silk tunic of Talitha’s and insanely high Yves Saint Laurent thigh boots.

‘But I can’t walk in them.’

‘Honey,’ said Talitha, ‘you’re not going to need to walk.’

In the cab started to think about how much Mark would have loved the thigh boots.

‘Stoppit,’ said Tom, seeing my face. ‘He would want you to have a life.’

Next I started to panic about the children. Talitha, who has known Daniel since
Sit Up Britain
days, took out her phone and texted:

No reply. We all stared nervously at the phone.

‘Daniel doesn’t text,’ I said, suddenly remembering. Then added, giggling, ‘He’s too old.’

Talitha put her mobile on speakerphone and called him.

‘Daniel, you bloody old bastard?’

‘Talitha! My dear girl! The very thought of you finds me suddenly, unaccountably, over-aroused. What are you up to at this moment and what colour are your panties?’

Grrr. He was supposed to be BABYSITTING.

‘I’m with Bridget,’ she said, drily. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Yup, all perfectly splendid. Children fast asleep. Am patrolling the doors, windows and corridors like a sentry. I shall be impeccable.’