Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

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 all. Nearly texted him back saying: <I didn’t know we were still having dinner tonight.> 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: <Chicken pie at my place?>

Roxster: <Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. About 8.30?>

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.’

‘That’s not a normal family,’ I said. ‘They never—’

‘Finn has Xbox in the week!’ said Billy.

‘Can we have SpongeBob now?’ said Mabel.

They were really tired. They fell asleep straight away after their bath.

8 p.m. Roxster will be here in half an hour. Am going to have a bath and re-wash hair, put make-up on, and try to find something suitable to wear for evening with person who may be about to either break up with me or produce an engagement ring.

8.10 p.m. In bath now. Gaah! Telephone.

8.15 p.m. Jumped out of the bath, wrapped self in towel and grabbed phone, to hear deep, powerful voice of George from Greenlight.

‘OK. We’re just on the tarmac in Denver. So, look, that went well today, but we don’t want you to lose . . . Santa Fe.’

‘But it’s in Stockholm!’ I said, suddenly realizing that I hadn’t put the chicken pie in.

‘Hang on, we’re disembarking . . . we don’t want you to lose your voice.’

What was he talking about? I hadn’t lost my voice. Had I?

‘Stockholm? No, I’m transferring to Santa Fe.’ Was he talking to me now, or the air hostess?

‘So. We want you to Hedda it up.’

‘Hedda it up?’ What could he possibly mean? Maybe he was talking to the pilot.

‘No, sorry, I meant Albuquerque.’

‘George!’ I yelled. ‘Aren’t you meant to be in Albufeira?’

‘What? WHAT?’

The phone went dead.

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