Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

‘Yes, Mabel.’


‘Your mouth looks all funny.’

‘Oh,’ I said, successfully avoiding consonants.

‘Why is your mouth all funny?’

Attempted to say ‘because’ but fuffing noise came out: ‘Pfecase I’pf . . .’

‘Mummy, why are you talking funny?’

‘It’s pfine, Bfafell, just by bouth is a bit pfoorly.’

‘What did you say, Mother?’

‘It’s all good, Daughter,’ I managed. You see, if I can just stick to vowels and guttural and sibilant consonants it’s bpffine!

4 p.m. Put scarf round mouth again and took worried-looking Mabel by her little hand, into the Junior Branch.

Billy was playing football. Tried to yell, but how could I say ‘Bfpilly’?

‘Oi,’ I attempted to shout. ‘Illy!’ Billy glanced up briefly, then carried on playing football. ‘Illy!’

How was I going to get him out of the playground? And they were having such a nice time running about but then had only got five minutes left on the car because it was in a loading bay.

‘ILLYYYYYY!’ I yelled.

‘Everything OK?’

I turned. It was Mr Wallaker. ‘A muffler? Are you cold? Doesn’t feel very cold to me,’ he said, rubbing his hands as if to check out the general temperature. He was wearing a blue businessman-type shirt and I could sense his lean, annoyingly fit body through it.

‘Bbdentist.’

‘I’m sorry?’

I quickly moved the scarf, said ‘Bbdentist’ again and put the scarf back. There was a quick flicker of amusement in his eyes.

‘Mummy’th mouth’th all funny,’ Mabel said.

‘Poor Mummy,’ said Mr Wallaker, bending down to Mabel. ‘What’s going on with your shoes? Have you got them on the wrong feet?’

Oh God. Was so preoccupied with Botox trauma did not notice. Mr Wallaker was swapping them efficiently.

‘Billy won’t come,’ said Mabel in her deep gruff voice, looking at him with her grave expression.

‘Really?’ Mr Wallaker got to his feet. ‘Billy!’ he called down authoritatively. Billy looked up, startled.

Mr Wallaker jerked his head to beckon him, at which Billy obediently trotted through the gate towards us.

‘Your mum was waiting for you. You knew that. Next time your mum is waiting for you, you come straight away. Got it?’

‘Yes, Mr Wallaker.’

He turned to me. ‘Are you OK?’

Suddenly, horrifyingly, felt my eyes filling with tears.

‘Billy. Mabel. Your mum’s been to the dentist and she’s feeling poorly. Now. I want you to be a little lady and a little gentleman and be nice to her.’

‘Yes, Mr Wallaker,’ they said, like automatons, putting out their hands to hold mine.

‘Very good. And, Mrs Darcy?’

‘Yes, Mr Wallaker?’

‘I wouldn’t do that again if I were you. You looked all right in the first place.’

When we reached our road, I suddenly realized I was driving on autopilot and had got the whole way home without noticing anything.

‘Mummy?’

‘Yes?’ I said, thinking, ‘They know, they know, we’re on terribly flimsy ground, and their mother is a Botoxed, failed cougar idiot who’s going to crash the car, and doesn’t know what she’s doing, what she’s supposed to be doing or how she’s supposed to do it, and they’re going to be taken into care by the Social Services and—’

‘Do dinosaurs have cold blood?’

‘Yes. Ubf, no?’ I said as I parked the car. Do they? ‘I fwmean, what are they? Are they repfhtiles or like phwdolpfhwins?’

‘Mummy, how long are you going to carry on talking like this?’

‘Can we have spag bog?’ said Mabel.

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