Mad About the Boy
Page 20
CHART FOUR – WHAT HOMEWORK SHOULD IDEALLY BE DONE ON WHICH DAY
e.g. Monday: draw and colour ‘family crest’ for the ‘ic’ Suffix Family. Colour in Indian god’s arms.
Ooh, doorbell.
11 p.m. Was Jude, in a traumatized state, falling inside and wandering shakily downstairs.
‘He wants me to tell him to lick things,’ she said dully, slumping on my sofa, clutching her phone, staring morbidly ahead.
Obviously I had to stop everything and listen. Turns out Snowboarderguy, with whom it has been going quite well for three weeks now, has suddenly revealed he is into sexual humiliation.
‘Well! That’s all right!’ I said comfortingly, putting a delicate swirl in the froth of her decaffeinated Nespresso ristretto cappuccino, feeling, as always with my new Christmas Nespresso machine, slightly like a barista in Barcelona.
‘You could tell him to lick . . . you!’ I said, handing her the beautifully constructed beverage.
‘No. He wants me to say things like, “Lick the soles of my shoes, lick out the toilet bowl.” I mean, it’s just not hygienic.’
‘You could get him to do useful things like housework. Maybe not the toilet bowl, but washing-up!’ I said, trying to put the gravity of her situation above my own hurt feelings at not having my cappuccino-froth design praised, or at least commented upon.
‘I’m not having him lick my washing-up.’
‘He could lick it to get the worst off, then put it in the dishwasher?’
‘Bridget. He wants to be sexually humiliated, not wash the dishes.’
Was desperate to cheer her up, particularly as everything was now going so well for me.
‘Isn’t there something humiliating you might enjoy?’ I said, as if persuading Mabel to go to a children’s party. ‘What about . . . blindfolds?’
‘No, he says he doesn’t like the 50 Shades stuff. It has to be, like, I’m just making him feel disgusting. Like he said he wanted me to tell him he had a really small penis. It’s just not normal.’
‘No,’ I had to concede. ‘That’s not really normal.’
‘Why did he have to wreck it? Everyone meets online now. Turning out to be nuts is such a cliché.’
She threw her iPhone crossly onto the table, which knocked into the cappuccino and completely ruined my design on the froth.
‘It’s a zoo out there,’ she said, staring morbidly into space.
DIRECTION!
Tuesday 14 May 2013
1 p.m. Just nipped to Oxford Street, delighted to find that Mango, Topshop, Oasis, Cos, Zara, Aldo, etc. have all read the same edition of Grazia as me! Looking at the real-life clothes after so long looking at the websites was almost like seeing film stars in real life after seeing them in magazines. Now have full celebrity-at-airport outfit comprising skinny jeans, ballet pumps, shirt, blazer and sunglasses though not the – perhaps requisite – enormous overpriced handbag.
Wednesday 15 May 2013
Minutes wasted trying and failing to look like Red Carpet Girl 297, minutes spent putting navy silk dress back on 2, number of times worn navy silk dress in last year 137, cost per wearing of navy silk dress since purchase minus £3 per hour – therefore navy silk dress actually more profit-making than self. Which is good. Also Buddhist.
10 a.m. Just setting off for Greenlight meeting in new outfit! The Leaves in His Hair seems to be galloping on apace. A director is attached: ‘Dougie’! The meeting, as usual, is ‘exploratory’, like at the dentist when you know you’re going to end up being drilled.
10.15 a.m. Just caught sight of self in shop window. Look completely ridiculous. Who is this person in shirt buttoned up to neck and skinny jeans, which make thighs look fat? Am going to go back home and change into navy silk dress.
10.30 a.m. Back home. Am going to be late.
11.10 a.m. Bumped into George in the corridor as I was running hysterically along in the navy silk dress. Screeched to a halt, thinking George had come out of the meeting to tell me off for being late and always wearing the same outfit, but he just said, ‘Oh, Leaves meeting, right, right, sorry, conference call. I’ll be with you in ten or fifteen.’
11.30 a.m. It’s much more relaxed, now, with Imogen and Damian, and we waited happily in the boardroom for George and Dougie, eating croissants, apples and miniature Mars bars. Tried to bring up skinny jeans issue but Imogen started talking about whether it was better to get clothes from Net-a-Porter in the fancy packaging, because it was so nice opening the black tissue paper, or to go for plain ecopackaging because it was easier to send them all back and also save the planet, and I tried to join in pretending I actually buy things off Net-a-Porter instead of just looking at them and going to Zara, when George BURST through the door, minus Dougie, with his usual ‘I’m on the move’ swooping movement, and talking in his deep powerful voice, whilst clicking through his emails.
‘The trouble with George is that he always seems to be somewhere else,’ I started thinking piously, whilst feeling my phone vibrate. ‘He’s always either just about to talk to someone else, or talking to someone else or emailing someone else or just getting on or off a plane.’ I glanced down to open my text, thinking, ‘Why? Why? Why can’t George just be where he is? “Oh, oh, look at me, I’m in the air, I’m a bird, why don’t we all have breakfast in China?”’
Text was from Roxster.
The whole George distraction issue means you have to fit everything you want to say to him into the length of – appropriately enough – a tweet. Though, actually, maybe that’s good in some ways. You see, I’ve noticed that, whereas men, as they get older, get all grumpy and grunty, women start talking too much and gabbling on and repeating themselves. And, as the Dalai Lama says, everything is a gift, so maybe George being so busy is a way of teaching me not to gabble on but—
‘Hello?’ George loomed up right in front of me, jerking me back into the present moment.
‘Hello,’ I said confusedly, quickly pressing ‘Send’ on my text to Roxster.
‘You’re sitting there like this,’ said George, then did exactly the same imitation Billy does of me with a vacant expression and my mouth hanging open.
‘I’m thinking,’ I said, turning off my phone, which emitted a quack. Hurriedly turned it back on. Or off.
‘Well, don’t,’ he said. ‘Don’t think. Right. We’ll have to make this quick, I’m just leaving for Ladakh.’
You see! Ladakh?
‘Oh! Are you making a film in Ladakh?’ I asked innocently whilst preconceivedly judging him for going to Ladakh for NO REASON except to go to Ladakh, and glancing down to see who the quacking text was from.
‘No,’ said George, busily looking in all his pockets for something. ‘No, it’s not Ladakh, it’s . . .’ A panicked gleam came into his eyes. ‘Lahore. I’ll be back in five.’
He swept back out of the door, presumably to ask his assistant where he was actually going. Text was from Jude.
Quickly texted Jude back.
Jude:
Me:
Suddenly two texts came in. The first was Jude’s reply:
<‘Tread on your balls’? That’s one of the things he wants. I mean, it would puncture them.>
Clicked the other text, thinking maybe Roxster? It was from George.
Looked up and nearly choked. George had somehow got back into the boardroom without me noticin
g, and was sitting opposite with a small, hip-looking guy in a black shirt, greying stubble-beard and Steven Spielberg round glasses, but with one of those slightly raddled, alcoholic-looking faces, which is different from Steven Spielberg’s cheery ‘I’d never have a facial peel but I look as though I have!’ glow.
I blinked at them, then suddenly leaped to my feet, holding out my hand across the boardroom table with a gay smile.
‘Dougieeeeeeeee! It’s so nice to meet you at last. I’ve heard SO much about you! How are you? Have you come far?’
Why do I turn into a Girl Guide/Her Majesty the Queen whenever I feel uncomfortable?
Fortunately, just then George’s assistant rushed in, looking flustered and whispered, ‘It’s not Lahore, it’s Le Touquet.’ At which George abruptly left, leaving Dougie and I to spend quite a lot of quality ‘exploring time’. This consisted of me actually – for once! – being allowed to talk properly about the feminist themes in Hedda Gabler, while Imogen looked on with a fixed smile.
Dougie, on the other hand, seemed really enthusiastic. He kept shaking his head in admiration and saying, ‘Yup, you’ve got it.’ I really think Dougie is going to be an ally in making sure that Leaves (as we now simply call it) stays true to its basic heart.
However, after Dougie had left, miming two thumbs on a phone and saying, ‘We’ll talk,’ the conversation almost seemed to turn against Dougie.
‘He, like, rurely needs this,’ said Damian dismissively.
‘So needs it,’ said Imogen. ‘Look, Bridget, this is absolutely, you know, lips-sealed, but I think we have an actress!’
‘An actress?’ I said excitedly.
‘Ambergris Bilk,’ she whispered.
‘Ambergris Bilk?’ I said disbelievingly. Ambergris Bilk wanted to be in my movie? Oh. My. God.
‘I mean, has she read it?’
Imogen gave me an indulgent, closed-mouth twinkly smile, the same sort of smile I use when telling Billy he’s earned his Wizard101 crowns for emptying the dishwasher (though not, of course, licking the plates).
‘She loves it,’ said Imogen. ‘The only thing is, she’s not one hundred per cent sure about Dougie.’
THE TROUBLE WITH OUTFITS
Thursday 16 May 2013
10.30 a.m. Mmmm. Another dreamy night with Roxster. Tried to engage him in conversation about the skinny-jeans issue but he had no interest in the matter whatsoever and said he liked me best with no clothes on.
11.30 a.m. Just had a ‘conference’ call with George, Imogen and Damian, to talk about me meeting Ambergris Bilk, who is over in London. Love conference calls, and the ability they give one to mime throat-slitting and toilet-flushing actions whenever anyone says something which vaguely annoys you.
‘So here’s the thing,’ said George. There was a loud mechanical roar in the background.
‘I think we’ve lost him,’ said Imogen. ‘Hang on.’
Just had another look at Grazia. Scarf is the thing I am missing with the skinny-jeans look, clearly. A floaty bohemian scarf, double-looped round the neck. Hmm. Also what am I going to wear for Talitha’s party? Maybe New Spring Whites? Gaah! They’re back. Greenlight, I mean. Not New Spring Whites.
‘Right,’ said George. ‘We want you to meet Ambergris and . . .’
‘What?’ I said, straining to hear above the roaring sound.
‘I’m in a helicopter. We want you to meet Ambergris and we . . .’
He disappeared again. What was he about to say? Wee on her?
12.30 p.m. Imogen from Greenlight just called back to say that George wants me to talk to Ambergris Bilk about the script, but not to say anything negative about Hawaii because Ambergris is into Hawaii. ‘And,’ added Imogen coldly, ‘he wants you to make nice about Dougie.’
Hooray, am going to meet an actual film star. I shall wear a floaty scarf!
5 p.m. Just got back from school run. It’s true. I now realize everyone has floaty bohemian scarves double-looped round their neck. Is odd, though, when remember all the years Mum and Una spent trying to ‘get me into scarves’ and I dismissed them as old-lady accessories rather like brooches. Now, is almost as if everyone has just read Grazia and said, like zombies indoctrinated by Red Carpet Girls, ‘I must wear a floaty bohemian scarf, I must wear a floaty bohemian scarf.’
Friday 17 May 2013
Minutes getting dressed and groomed for school run 75.
5.45 a.m. Have got up an hour early to get styled and groomed for school run in manner of Stella McCartney, Claudia Schiffer or similar. Feel my look is marvellous, still with skinny jeans and ballet pumps, but now with floaty scarf looped round neck.
7 a.m. Woke Billy and helped Mabel up from bottom bunk. Just as was getting the clothes out of the wardrobe I realized Billy and Mabel were giggling.
‘What?’ I said, turning round to look at them. ‘What?’
‘Mummy,’ said Billy, ‘why are you wearing a tea towel round your neck?’
9.30 a.m. Back from school run with latest edition of Grazia, and found an article headed: ‘Is This the End of the Skinny Jean?’
Am going to go back to dressing like the mother in Good Luck Charlie.
HEADY GLAMOROUS TIMES
Monday 20 May 2013
Film stars met 1, mini-breaks planned 1, parties about to go to with Roxster 1, rides in posh car 2, compliments from film star 5, calories consumed with film star 5476, calories consumed by film star 3.
2.30 p.m. Everything could not be better. I am about to be picked up in a ‘car’ to go and meet Ambergris Bilk in the Savoy. Have tried on various versions of the skinny-jeans/scarf/shirt-buttoned-up-to-neck celebrity-at-airport look but finally have opted for the navy silk dress, even though it is becoming a little worn. Talitha has helped me order some dresses from Net-a-Porter for her party and have got a really nice one which is J.Crew and not that expensive.
Also in three weekends’ time Roxster and I are going on a mini-break. A mini-break! Just the two of us, for the whole of Saturday afternoon, Saturday night and Sunday. Am so excited. Have not been on a mini-break for five years! Anyway, must get on with notes for meeting.
5.30 p.m. In car on way back from meeting. Was initially disappointed when Ambergris arrived, as had expected her to sweep in in skinny jeans, shirt buttoned up to the neck, blazer, floaty bohemian scarf and enormous overpriced handbag, so that I could see how it was done, and everyone would look at and admire us. Instead I hardly recognized her when she suddenly slunk into the booth wearing grey sweats and a baseball cap.
There was a sort of bonding prologue – which I am getting used to amongst women in the movie business – taken up with Ambergris complimenting me on my outfit, the fact that it was just the navy silk dress seeming irrelevant. I felt that I too must then compliment her on her sweats.
‘They look so . . . sporty!’ I gushed wildly, just as an absolutely enormous tea arrived on a three-tier cake stand. Ambergris took a tiny smoked-salmon sandwich and toyed with it for the rest of the conversation, during which I consumed the entire bottom layer of sandwiches, three scones with jam and clotted cream, a selection of miniature tarts and pastries, and both the free glasses of champagne.
Ambergris expressed awe and wonderment at my script, placing her hand on top of mine, saying, ‘I feel humbled.’
Spirits soaring with the notion that my voice was really going to be coming to the fore, I moved on to making nice about Dougie: brushing over the anxieties Ambergris clearly shared with Damian and Imogen, that he ‘so needed it’ and hadn’t actually made anything which anyone had heard of.
‘Dougie really understands my voice,’ I said, putting a reverential warmth into the word ‘Dougie’. ‘You should do a meeting with Dougie.’ (I so have the lingo down now.)
It was agreed that Ambergris would do a meeting with Dougie and, all too quickly, it was time for Ambergris to go. I felt like we were best friends already. Also felt that was about to throw up from consuming an entire tea for two plus both of our glasses
of champagne.
5.45 p.m. Just rang up Greenlight ‘from the car!’ to boast about the success of the meeting, only to find that Ambergris has already called – from her car! – to say how intelligent and empathetic she thinks I am!
TALITHA’S PARTY
It was the hottest day of the year and the sun was still high when we met for Talitha’s party. Roxster looked at his most gorgeous: in a white T-shirt, lightly tanned, a half-shadow outlining his jaw. The invitation said: ‘Casual Summer Party’. Was slightly worried about New Spring Whites dress, even though Talitha had chosen it, but when Roxster saw me he said, ‘Oh, Jonesey. You look perfect.’
‘You look perfect too,’ I said enthusiastically, practically panting with lust. ‘Your outfit’s absolutely perfect.’ At which Roxster, who clearly had no idea what he was wearing, looked down, puzzled, and said, ‘It’s just a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.’
‘I know,’ I said, giggling inwardly at the thought of Roxster’s ripped torso in a sea of suits and panama hats.
‘Do you think there’ll be a full buffet or just finger food?’
‘Roxster . . .’ I said warningly. He nuzzled up to me with a kiss. ‘I’m only here for you, baby. Do you think it’ll be hot dishes or just cold? Joke, joke, Jonesey.’
We walked, hand in hand, along a narrow old brick passageway, emerging into a huge hidden garden: sunlight on a blue swimming pool, white armchairs and mattresses for lounging, and a yurt – the quintessential English summer party with just a hint of Moroccan boutique hotel.
‘Shall I get us some food – I mean, drinks?’
I stood, lost, for a moment as Roxster trotted off in search of food, staring, scared, at the scene. It was that moment when you first arrive in a sea of people and your mind’s all jangly and you can’t recognize anyone you know. Suddenly felt I was wearing the wrong thing. I should have worn the navy silk dress.
‘Ah, Bridget?’ Cosmo and Woney. ‘Arriving all on your own again. Where are these “boyfriends” we’ve heard so much about then, eh? Maybe we can find you one tonight.’