Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

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.’

‘Yes,’ said Woney conspiratorially. ‘Binko Carruthers.’

They nodded in the direction of Binko, who was looking around with his usual deranged expression, wild hair and plump body erupting at various points from, horrifyingly, instead of his usual crumpled suit, a pair of aquamarine flares and a psychedelic shirt with a frill down the front.

‘He thought it said sixties birthday party, not sixtieth,’ giggled Woney.

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