Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy (21 page)

Maybe this will be the way forward. Sperm will simply be donated, frozen through the dating website which originally introduced you. But then, hmm, the women will end up doing what I end up doing, trying to run crazily between one child who’s done something messy and complicated in the toilet and the other who’s got sandwiched between the fridge and the fridge door. Maybe the way forward is cyber children, rather like those Japanese Tamagotchi pets, which give you the illusion of parenthood for about two days until you get bored with them, combined with cuddly soft toys. But then the human race would die out and . . . Ooh, another text from Roxster.

Me:

Roxster:

‘Bridget, are you still talking to the fishmonger?’ My mother was now dressed in another Kate Middleton’s mother coat and dress, only
this time in Titan-Acorn-Barnacle pink. ‘Why don’t you just go to Sainsbury’s? – they have a smashing fish counter there! Anyway, come on! You know Penny Husbands-Bosworth is married now?’ she gabbled, sweeping me away from the children-and-balloon scenario.

‘Ashley Green! You remember Ashley? Pancreatic cancer! Wyn had hardly made her exit through the crematorium curtains before Penny was ringing Ashley’s doorbell with a sausage casserole.’

‘I don’t think I should leave the—’

‘They’ll be fine, darling, with their balloons. Anyway, Penny was saying we really should get you together with Kenneth Garside! He’s on his own. You’re on your own and—’

‘Mother!’ I hissed, as she dragged me into the alarmingly named Function Room. ‘Is this the man who kept going into everyone’s bedrooms on the cruise?’

‘Well, all right, yes, darling, he is. But the point is he’s clearly got a VERY high sex drive, so he needs a younger woman and . . .’

‘Mother!’ I burst out, just as a Roxster text pinged up on my phone. I opened it. Mum grabbed the phone.

‘It’s the fishmonger again,’ she glowered, showing me the message.

‘Who is this fishmonger? – Oh, look! Here’s Kenneth now.’

Kenneth Garside, wearing grey slacks and a pink sweater, did a little dancey step towards us. And for a second it could have been Uncle Geoffrey. Uncle Geoffrey, Una’s husband, Dad’s best friend, with his slacks and golfing sweaters and little dancey steps and ‘How’s your love life? When are we going to get you married off?’

I started spiralling into grief about Dad, and what he would have made of all this. Then Kenneth Garside snapped me out of it by flashing an enormous set of very white false teeth in the midst of his orange face, and saying creepily, ‘Hello, beautiful young lady. I’m Ken69. That’s my “press age”, my secret preferences and my Internet-dating profile name. But maybe I won’t be needing that now I’ve met you!’

Euww! I thought, then instantly shrank at my own hypocrisy, as
my mind careered into mental arithmetic, demonstrating, horrifically, that the age difference between me and Roxster was four years more than the gap between me and Kenneth Garside’s ‘press age’.

‘Hahaha!’ said Mum. ‘Oh, there’s Pawl, I’ll just have a quick chat to him about the profiteroles,’ she said, diving off towards a man in a chef’s outfit, leaving me with Kenneth Garside’s dazzling false teeth, just as Una, mercifully, started banging on a wine glass with a spoon. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! The Cruise Slideshow Event is about to begin!’

‘Can I offer you my arm?’ said Kenneth, grabbing my arm and parading me into the Ballroom, where rows of ornate cream chairs with gold edges were filling up in front of a giant screen showing a picture of the cruise liner.

As we sat down, Kenneth Garside said, ‘What have we got on our trousers?’ and started rubbing at my knee with his handkerchief, as Una took to the platform and began.

‘Friends! Family! This year’s St Oswald’s cruise marked the high spot of an already full and fulfilling year.’

‘Stoppit,’ I hissed to Kenneth Garside.

‘It’s all computerized now!’ Una continued. ‘So! Without further ado, I’m going to talk over the “Macslideshow” and some of us can relive while others dream!’

The cruise-ship shot morphed into a mosaic of pictures, zooming in on a photo of Mum and Una boarding the ship and waving.

‘Gentlemen Prefer Blondes!’ said Una into the mic, cueing the slideshow soundtrack of Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell singing ‘Two Little Girls from Little Rock’ over a shot of Mum and Una in a horrifying
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
homage, lying side by side on a double bed in the cabin, looking coquettishly towards the camera, one leg each raised in the air.

‘Oh, my word,’ said Kenneth.

Then suddenly the soundtrack was masked by a familiar electronic tune and the slideshow was replaced by a lurid cartoon of a dragon belching fire at a one-eyed purple wizard. Sat, frozen, realizing that this was Wizard101. Could it possibly . . . could Billy possibly
have got on a computer and . . .? Suddenly the Wizard101 page disappeared to be replaced by my EMAIL INBOX PAGE, saying ‘Welcome, Bridget’, with a list of subjects, the first one, from Tom, entitled ‘St Oswald’s House Cruise Event Nightmare’. What was Billy DOING?

‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ I said, panicking, making my way along the row, amidst the general consternation, trying to avoid Mum’s eye.

Rushed out into the hallway and back to the balloon room, to find Billy, oblivious, tapping furiously at a MacBook Air, which was attached to a lot of wire and Ethernet hubs on a side table.

‘Billy!’

‘Wait! I just got to finish this leveeeeel! I didn’t go on your email. I was trying to retrieve my password.’

‘Come off that,’ I rasped. I managed to forcibly get him off, close the Wizard101 and Yahoo windows, and drag him back to the balloons, just as a man in wire glasses rushed in and up to the laptop, looking traumatized.

‘Has anyone touched this?’ he said, eyes darting incredulously around the room. I looked at Billy’s face, hoping Billy would remain silent or lie. He frowned thoughtfully, and I could see him remembering all my bloody lectures about the importance of honesty and telling the truth. ‘Not now!’ I wanted to yell. ‘It’s all right to lie when Mummy needs you to!’

‘Yes, it was me,’ said Billy ruefully. ‘And I didn’t mean to go on Mummy’s email but I forgot my password.’

9.15 p.m.
At home. In bed now. On top of the whole appalling disaster, the question still remains of what I am going to do about babysitter on Friday. Tried suggesting Friday night to Mum, after the furore had died down, but she just looked at me coldly and said it was Aqua-Zumba.

9.30 p.m.
Tried Magda, but she is going to be on a short break to Istanbul with Cosmo and Woney.

‘I wish I could, Bridge,’ she said. ‘We always had my mother for babysitting emergencies, it must be tricky having had the children older. Is it that the kids are too young for you to help her, and she’s too old to help you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘She’s got Aqua-Zumba.’

Am going to have to try Daniel.

10.45 p.m.
Called Daniel.

‘Who are you shagging, Jones?’

‘No one.’

‘I demand to know.’

‘I’m not, it’s just—’

‘I shall punish you.’

‘I just thought you’d like to have them to stay.’

‘Jones. You have always been the most cataclysmically awful liar. I am wild with sexual jealousy. I feel tragic, a past-it old fool.’

‘Daniel, don’t be ridiculous, you’re incredibly attractive and virile and young-looking and irresistibly sexy and—’

‘I know, Jones, I know. Thank you, thank you.’

Upshot is Daniel is coming round on Friday at six thirty to take them to his place!

TO SLEEP WITH OR NOT TO SLEEP WITH?

Wednesday 30 January 2013

Pros of sleeping with Roxster 12, cons of sleeping with Roxster 3, percentage of time spent deciding whether or not to sleep with Roxster, preparing for possibility of sleeping with Roxster and imagining sleeping with Roxster compared with actual time it would probably take to sleep with Roxster 585%.

9.30 p.m.
Just called Tom. ‘OF COURSE YOU HAVE TO SLEEP WITH HIM,’ he said. ‘You have to lose your Born-Again Virginity, or it’ll just turn into a bigger and bigger obstacle. Talitha says he’s a good chap. And besides, it’s an opportunist crime. How often do you get the house to yourself?’

Called up Talitha to cross-check with her view:

‘What did I tell you about not sleeping with anyone too soon?’

‘You said, “not before you feel ready”, not “too soon”,’ I elucidated, then reiterated Tom’s argument, adding, to give strength to my position: ‘We’ve been texting for weeks. Surely it’s rather like in Jane Austen’s day when they did letter-writing for months and months and then just, like, immediately got married?’

‘Bridget. Sleeping with a twenty-nine-year-old off Twitter on the second date is not “rather like in Jane Austen’s day”.’

‘But it was you who said, “She has to get laid.”’

‘Well, all right, I know. And Roxster seems a sterling chap. Just go with your gut, darling. But keep safe, keep in touch and use a condom.’

‘Condoms! I’m not going to sleep with him! What are you supposed to do about being naked?’

‘You get a slip, darling.’

‘A slip – like the zoo form?’

‘Go to La Perla – no, don’t go to La Perla, the expense is eye-watering. Go to Intimissimi or La Senza and get yourself a couple of little short black silk sexy slips. I think, when you were last doing this, they were called “petticoats”. Or maybe one black, one white. With a slip, you can show off your arms and legs and décolletage, which are always the last to go, but keep the central area – which we might want to gloss over – glossed over. OK?’

Thursday 31 January 2013

10 a.m.
Just logged onto email.

Sender:
Brian Katzenberg

Subject:
Your screenplay

10.01 a.m.
Yayy! Screenplay has been accepted!

10.02 a.m
Oh.

Sender:
Brian Katzenberg

Subject:
Your screenplay

We have a couple of responses on your script. They are passing. The themes are fascinating but they’re wanting more of a romcom feel. I’ll keep trying.

10.05 a.m.
Sent fraudulently cheery email back saying:

Thanks, Brian. Fingers crossed.

But now am slumped in despair. Am failure as screenwriter. Am going to go shopping for underwear.

Noon.
Just back from purchasing slip, though am not going to sleep with Roxster. Obviously.

2 p.m.
Just back from leg and bikini wax. Though am not going to sleep with him, obviously.

At the beauty salon, Chardonnay said I should have a Brazilian because that is what the young men expect these days and suggested I buy a course of laser treatments.

‘But’, I said, ‘what if Brazilians go out of fashion and the thing is to have a fulsome giant bush like French people again?’

At this, Chardonnay revealed that she had had the whole thing lasered so she was like a baby girl. But, as she says, she worries now, what if she sleeps with someone who doesn’t like the full Brazilian? And admitted that she had toyed with the idea of putting that potion onto it that makes bald men’s hair grow back.

3.15 p.m.
In total agony. Opted for a sort of modified Brazilian known as ‘landing strip’. Is no possibility of ever having sex with anyone after this, which is fine as am not going to sleep with him anyway. Obviously.

Friday 1 February 2013

9.30 a.m.
Leaped furtively into Boots after school drop-off to purchase condoms, since could not do it with children in tow. (Though, on other hand, presence of children might have suggested condom-purchase was sign of responsible attitude to world overpopulation, rather than loose behaviour.)

Was just standing at till, when had a sense of someone glancing at basket. Looked up to see Mr Wallaker at the next till, now staring implacably ahead, though he had obviously seen the condoms, because of the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Completely brazened it out by also looking straight ahead and saying, ‘Terrible weather for the rugby match today, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, it’s sometimes rather enjoyable in the mud,’ he said, picking up his Boots bag with a tiny snort of amusement. ‘Enjoy your weekend.’

Humph. Bloody Mr Wallaker. Anyway, what was he bloody well doing in the chemist at half past nine on a weekday morning? Shouldn’t he be at school organizing one of his military uprisings? He was probably buying condoms as well. Coloured condoms.

On the way home started to panic about leaving the kids with Daniel and called him up.

‘Jones, Jones, Jones, Jones, Jones. Whatever can you be suggesting? The darlings will be meticulously cared for, almost to the point of overindulgence. I shall take them,’ he said grandly, ‘to the cinema.’

‘What movie?’ I said nervously.

‘
Zero Dark Thirty.
’

‘WHAT?’

‘That was what we human people laughingly call “a joke”, Jones. I have tickets to
Wreck-It Ralph
. At least, I shall shortly have tickets to
Wreck-It Ralph
now that you have reminded me about the whole splendid occasion. And then I shall take them to a fine eating establishment, such as McDonald’s Restaurant, and then I shall read them children’s classics until they fall purringly to sleep. And if you send a hairbrush I shall use it to spank them if they misbehave. So anyway. Who ARE you shagging?’