Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy
Page 23
Then decided to give him a way out in case he really just wanted a relaxing setting for the full break-up.
<*Googling menu* Of course you are, my little chicken and mushroom puffball.>
11 a.m. Feeling suddenly light and giddy, I booked the room and texted:
Long pause, then . . .
MINI-BREAK OR BREAK-UP?
Saturday 8 June 2013
Texting has been more high-spirited than ever with Roxby McDuff, full of plans for our trip, so maybe it was just a wobble brought on by the Ellen Boschup toy-boy article, and he is in the Present Moment and everything is all right.
But anyway had better finish packing or will miss train. Ooh, text from Roxster.
Was he going to cancel?
<*On one knee* Will you be my wife?>
Stared at the phone. What was going on?
Thought carefully, then, suspecting a trick, I texted:
Sunday 9 June 2013
Mini-breaks 1, shags 7, alcohol units 17, calories 15,892, weight 193lb (including, feels like, 60lb small animal).
Mini-break was heaven. It was ambrosia. We carried on the marriage joke all weekend. It was balmy, sunny weather and it was blissful being away from the noise and to-do lists. Roxster was at his most cheerful and merry. The pub was tiny, in a hidden valley by a little river. The Bridal Suite was in a separate barn, painted white, with a sloping ceiling and rough wooden beams, and windows on two sides, one side looking straight onto the river and, beyond, a water meadow. Tried to block out memories of Bridal Suite for my real wedding with Mark. But started laughing when Roxster carried me over the threshold, pretending to stagger under the weight, and flung me on the bed.
The windows were open and all you could hear was the river, birds, and sheep in the distance. We had sleepy dreamy sex, then slept for a while. Then we walked along the river and found a little ancient chapel, where we pretended to get married and that the cows were our wedding guests. Eventually we came to another pub, and drank too much beer to quench our thirst and topped it with wine. There was no talk about breaking up. I did tell Roxster about being sacked from Leaves and he was so sweet and said they were all mad, and didn’t appreciate my rare genius, and he was going to fight them with his beefy arms. Then we ate a meal so gigantic that afterwards I could hardly move. I had this huge . . . thing in my stomach . . . it felt like being pregnant with a strange creature with very protuberant arms and legs.
We went outside to try and walk it off. There was a full moon, and I suddenly thought about Mabel: ‘There’th the moon. It followth me.’ I thought about Mark, and all the times the moon had followed us, and all the years when I was sure, sure that he would always be there and that there wasn’t heartbreak ahead, just years of being together, stretching before us.
‘You all right, baby?’ said Roxster.
‘I feel like I’ve eaten a Bambi,’ I laughed, to cover the moment.
‘I feel like I want to eat you,’ said Roxster. He put his arm round my shoulders and everything felt fine again. We walked along the river a bit, then got into a bog, and decided it was too dark and too far and went back to the pub and rang for a taxi.
When we got home to the room, the windows were wide open, and the room was filled with the scent of blossom and the gentle sound of the river. Unfortunately, though, the Bambi was so huge that all I could do was put on my slip and lie face downwards on the bed, feeling as though there was a massive dent beneath me in the mattress containing the Bambi. Then suddenly a dog started barking, really loudly, right outside the window. It just wouldn’t stop. Then the Bambi eased itself slightly and embarrassingly by letting out an enormous fart.
‘Jonesey!’ said Roxster. ‘Was that a fart?’
‘Maybe just a teensy-weensy little pfuff of Bambi,’ I said sheepishly.
‘Little pfuff? It was more like a plane taking off. It’s even silenced the dog!’
It had. But then the bloody dog started barking again. It was like being on a housing estate on the outskirts of Leeds.
‘I’ll give you something to take your mind off it, baby,’ said Roxster.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
10 p.m. Back in London now. Blissful. Got home at six feeling like a new woman. Children seemed to have had a really good time and I was delighted to see them again, and was so full of joie de vivre and bonhomie that even a Sunday evening, with the panic of forgotten homework, passed in a golden joy of 50s-style hearth and home. Better, Easier Parenting? Just get laid a lot.
Ooh, text.
Roxster:
Hmm. Suspected a trick. Still wary from the whole confusion/panic attack thing.
Me: <*Farts* Not catching me out being lovey-dovey.>
Roxster: <*Sobs*>
Me: <*Evil cackle* I didn’t heart the weekend at all, honestly.>
Roxster:
Me:
Roxster:
Me:
Roxster:
Me:
Roxster:
Me:
Roxster:
Me:
Roxster:
Me:
IS IT SNOW OR IS IT BLOSSOM?
Tuesday 11 June 2013
133lb, days since any communication from Roxster 2, amount of day spent worrying about lack of communication from Roxster 95%, mass emails re Sports Day chopped vegetables 76, spam emails 104, combined minutes late for school pickups 9, number of sides on a pentagon (unknown).
2 p.m. Very weird weather – is freezing cold and little white things swirling about. Cannot be snow, surely – is June. Maybe is blossom? But so much of it.
2.05 p.m. Roxster has not called or texted since Sunday night.
2.10 p.m. It is snow. But not nice snow like in the winter. Is strange snow. Presumably world about to end through global warming. Think will go to Starbucks.
Though really ought to find somewhere other than Starbucks that does ham-and-cheese paninis in protest at whole tax-avoidance thing, though maybe irrelevant as world about to end anyway.
2.30 p.m. Mmm. Feel much jollier about everything, now am in world full of people and coffee and ham-and-cheese paninis all huddling together cosy from the cold. The weird unnatural snow has stopped and everything seems normal again. Honestly! Getting in such a stew about everything. Think will text Roxster. I mean, I haven’t texted him since Sunday night either, have I?
Roxster:
Me: <*Types* Roxster’s beefy shoulders glistened in the dappling sunlight like, like . . . beefy shoulders.>
Roxster:
Me: <*Calmly continues typing* An enormous fart emerged from his bum, which quivered in the blossom-scented air. . .>
Roxster has not replied. Ooh, text.
Was Jude.
Texted back:
2.55 p.m. Still Roxster has not replied. Hate this. Am so confused. And have to pick kids up in half an hour and be all cheerful. OK, have a few minutes to deal with Sports Day emails.
Sender:
Nicolette Martinez
Subject:
Sports Day Picnic
Sent from my Sony Ericsson Xperia Mini Pro
We need picnic items for boys/parents for our class. I’ve filled in the parents who have already volunteered. Juices: Dagmar
Sliced carrots, radishes and peppers (red and yellow): ?
Sandwiches: Atsuko Fujimoto
Crisps: Devora
Water: ???
Fruits: ??
Melon balls and strawberries: ?
Cookies (no nuts please!): Valencia
Black bin liners: Scheherazade
Let us know what you plan to bring.
Thank you.
Please let’s all bring picnic blankets if we have them.
Thanks, Nicolette
Sender:
Vladlina Koutznestov
Subject:
Re: Sports Day Picnic
I’ll bring fruits – probably some berries and cut-up melons.
Sender:
Anzhelika Sans Souci
Subject:
Re: Sports Day Picnic
I’ll bring sliced carrots, and radishes. Could someone else do red and yellow peppers?
Anzhelika
PS Should someone bring paper cups?
Farzia, Bikram’s mum, just forwarded me an email she’d – in a moment of utter madness – sent to Nicolette.
Sender:
Farzia Seth
Subject:
Re: Sports Day Picnic
Do you think we all need picnic blankets – won’t a few between us be fine?
And the one she’d got back from Nicolette, with a note from Farzia saying, ‘Shoot me now!’
Sender:
Nicolette Martinez
Subject:
Re: Sports Day Picnic
Definitely not. We should all bring picnic blankets. With two boys at the school, I do have some experience of this!
Light-headed and devil-may-care now, I emailed Farzia ‘Watch this’ and sent:
Sender:
Bridget Billymum
Subject:
Re: Sports Day Picnic
I’ll bring the vodka. We drink it neat without mixers, all agreed?
Group email came instantly back.
Sender:
Nicolette Martinez
Subject:
Re: Sports Day Picnic
Vodka is NOT a good idea at Sports Day, Bridget. Or cigarettes. Could you manage the red and yellow peppers? Possibly? In strips so they’ll work with the dips? It is actually quite a difficult job organizing the Sports Day Picnic.
Oh, shit. In the middle of it all suddenly saw email from Imogen at Greenlight.
Sender:
Imogen Faraday, Greenlight Productions
Subject:
Ambergris’s Notes
Dear Bridget,
Just checking that you got the notes from Ambergris on the script for tomorrow’s meeting to meet Saffron. Could you confirm that you can be at the meeting to give your notes on Ambergris’s notes for Saffron?
Hope you’re not about to slash your wrists, because I am.
Imogen x
What meeting? What notes? Who is ‘Saffron’?
Spooled frantically through morass of emails about Sports Day fruits and vegetables, Zombie Apocalypse, Ocado, ASOS, Net-a-Porter, Mexican Viagra, etc., then realized it was time to pick up Mabel.
4.30 p.m. Mabel and Billy just had argument all the way home over whether a triathlon with five sports was called a Quintathlon or Pentathlon.
‘It is!’
‘It isn’t.’
Tried to work out feebly how many sides a pentagon had or remember what five was in Latin, and ended up nearly crashing the car and yelling, ‘Look, will you just shut up?!’ then going into paroxysms of guilt while they started on what the five sports were and Mabel said one of them was ‘Tape measuring’.
‘Tape measuring?’ Billy said incredulously, at which Mabel burst into tears and said, ‘Dey do do tape measuring.’
9.15 p.m. Just read article in the paper about David Cameron saying he keeps getting calls from heads of state when the kids are in the back of the car, recounting putting his hand over the receiver and hissing, ‘Look, will you SHUT UP?’ while talking to the Israeli Prime Minister.
So maybe it isn’t just me.
FRANTIC
Wednesday 12 June 2013
8 a.m. Right. Greenlight meeting is at nine so have managed to get Chloe to do school run, and then I will do school pickup instead.
8.10 a.m. Just have to wash hair and get dressed.
8.15 a.m. Disaster. Navy silk dress is at the dry-cleaner’s and forgot to ask Chloe to get mountain of red and yellow peppers ready for tomorrow, and still have to wash hair.
8.45 a.m. On bus, nearly there. Feel trussed up like a chicken in black evening dress, which was only clean meeting-like garment could find. Looked OK in mirror because it is corset-like which holds everything in when standing up, giving one a taut hourglass shape, with, admittedly, a lace top, but have put Grazia blazer on top, though now boiling, to create pleasingly eclectic Good Luck Charlie daughter effect.
However, on glimpsing in shop window realized outfit insane. Now am on bus, remember also that corset-like nature of dress is torture when sitting down. One’s rolls of fat are squeezed together like dough being kneaded in a food processor. Also, whole effect has something of the dominatrix about it, which is the last thing I am able to pull off when mental state would be more authentically represented by a duvet, hot-water bottle and Puffle One. Plus hair has gone into weird square bouffe like Mum and Una as if I am wearing a hat.
Did manage to find and read Ambergris Bilk’s notes overnight, but now confused because The Leaves in His Hair seems, in Ambergris’s mind, to have moved to Stockholm. Does she know George is stuck with the yacht in Hawaii because of the stoner movie falling over? And will George think I was trying to talk Ambergris back to Norway and she disguised it as Sweden? Actually, will ask Chloe to get some Pimm’s as well as don’t see how can otherwise get through Sports Day in sub-glacial temperatures. Gaaah! Text from Roxster.
Dinner tonight? Did we say we were having dinner tonight? Oh, shit, now have not got babysitter and . . . had better go to meeting.
3 p.m. Nightmare meeting. ‘Saffron’ turned out to be the new screenwriter, who is, of course, twenty-six, and has just written a pilot – ‘Girls meets Game of Thrones meets The Killing’ – which is about to be ‘picked up’ by HBO (before, I thought with un-Buddhist spiteful hope, it ‘falls over’). Felt like some embarrassing evening-dress-with-blazer-and-weird-hat-hair elephant in the room. Then accidentally put chair leg on handbag, which, unbeknownst to me, now contained Billy’s noise machine from the party bag from the African drumming party, and emitted a very long burp. Nobody laughed except Imogen.
Saffron’s opening foray, placing the script on the table in front of her, was a simpering: ‘This might just be me, but isn’t Hedda Gabler actually spelt with one b? Gabler? Not Gabbler? And isn’t it by Ibsen, not Chekhov?’
As everyone stared at me, and I muttered something about anti-intellectualist irony, found self thinking how relaxing it would be to have dinner with Roxster and laugh about it a
ll. Nearly texted him back saying: but thought it sounded petulant so instead, as soon as attention was diverted to Saffron’s nauseating theories about how to RUIN my oeuvre, I furtively texted:
Roxster:
Instantly regretted saying ‘chicken pie’, as did not have either chicken pie or means to make chicken pie. Also legs were probably hairy, but could not check as in meeting. Was too weak, depressed and bewildered to get into the discussion about Stockholm versus Hawaii so just said that maybe we should ‘let Saffron do a draft’ and see how it ‘comes off the page’. At which George had to run off to get a plane to Albuquerque.
7.30 p.m. Ugh. I rushed home from meeting, managing to squeeze in buying mountain of red and green peppers as did not have yellow, and purchase of chicken pie from overpriced deli, then managed to pick up both children just in time.
As we were driving home, Billy said, ‘Mummy?’
‘Yes,’ I said vaguely, trying to dodge a cyclist who had just veered out in front of me.
‘It’s Father’s Day on Sunday. We made cards.’
‘We did too,’ said Mabel.
As soon as I could, I pulled over and cut the engine. I wiped my face with both hands, rubbing my eyes for a second, then turned to look at them.
‘Can I see the cards?’
They scrabbled in their bags. Mabel’s was of a family with a daddy, a mummy, a little girl and a little boy. Billy’s drawing was contained in a heart, with a little boy playing a game with his father. It said ‘Daddy’.
‘Can we post dem to Daddy?’ said Mabel.
When we got home, I got out all the photos of them with Mark – Billy in a little suit, the same as Mark’s, standing together, the same look on their faces, exactly the same pose, one hand in the trouser pocket. Mark holding Mabel up when she was newborn, like a little toy in her onesie. We talked about Daddy, and how I was sure he knew what we were doing, and he was loving us still. Then we went out and posted the cards.
Mabel had addressed hers ‘Daddy. Heaven. Space’. In the midst of feeling guilty about everything else I felt guilty about traumatizing the postman.
On the way home Billy said, ‘I wish we lived in a normal family, like Rebecca.’