Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(57)

‘You know what?’ George was looking thoughtful. ‘Hedda could be more of a Cameron Diaz. What about Bradley Cooper for boring husband?’

‘Mmm! Yes!’ I said. ‘But isn’t Bradley Cooper quite sex—’

‘Jude Law in Anna Karenina,’ concurred Imogen, with a knowing smile. ‘Or cast the whole piece older and have George Clooney playing against type?’

Felt in some strange twilight world where we were just bandying about incredibly famous people, who would have absolutely no interest in being in it at all. Why would Cosmata’s mother think that nits and sick germs could hop from the pavement into the front door and why would George Clooney want to be in an updated version of Hedda Gabbler, set on a yacht in Hawaii, playing against type, written by me?

‘What if she doesn’t die?’ said George, getting to his feet and starting to walk around. ‘She dies, right, in the book?’

‘The play,’ said Imogen.

‘But that’s the whole point,’ I said.

‘Yeah, but if it’s a romcom?’

‘It’s not a romcom, it’s a tragedy,’ I said, then immediately regretted my presumptuousness.

The phone vibrated again. Chloe.

<You can’t park in Cosmata’s street. And her mother won’t come round the corner because of the baby.>

‘She shoots herself,’ said Imogen.

‘Shoots herself? Shoots herself?’ said George. ‘Who does that?’

‘But you can’t say “Who does that?” about someone shooting themselves,’ Imogen was saying.

‘That’s exactly what they say! In the original play!’ I said, trying to overcome feelings of annoyance with Cosmata’s mother. ‘“Good God! People don’t do things like that!”’

There was a silence. I knew I’d said completely the wrong thing.

Imogen was looking daggers at me. I had to stop looking at the texts and CONCENTRATE. I was clearly in the middle of some incredibly complex power struggle, which I didn’t fully understand, and one or other of the children would have to remain abandoned and Roxster’s food obsession unsatisfied. Imogen had supported me over the fact that you couldn’t question whether people shot themselves or not – because clearly they do sometimes and not just in plays – but then I, instead of supporting her in her support, had supported George by saying that his views were supported by the opinions of . . .

‘I mean, I agree with you, Imogen,’ I said. ‘People shoot themselves all the time. Not actually all the time, but they do shoot themselves sometimes. Look at, look at, um.’ I looked wildly around for inspiration, wishing I could google ‘Modern Celebrities Who Have Shot Themselves’. Instead I quickly texted Chloe: <Get surgical mask for Billy.>

‘Right,’ said George, sitting down again, in an important, businesslike way. ‘So. We’ll give you a couple of days. No Kate Hudson shooting herself. It’s a comedy. It’s the comedy we like.’

I stared at George aghast. The Leaves in His Hair is not a comedy. It is a tragedy. Had the tragedy in my writing somehow inadvertently come out as comic? The fact that Hedda Gabbler shoots herself is fundamental. But, as Brian said, in the movie business, artistic integrity has to go together with pragmatism and . . . There was another text from Roxster!

<Maybe suggest they make ‘Nits’ as a Pixar-style animation.>

Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea. Suddenly the previously mentioned Pink Panther concept combined with Roxster’s ‘Nits’ suggestion triggered a brilliant notion in my mind.

‘What about Tom and Jerry?’ I burst out. George, who had now opened the door to leave, stopped in his tracks and looked back.

‘I mean, Tom and Jerry is a comedy, but terrible things happen to both Tom and Jerry. I mean, more Tom – he gets flattened, he gets electrocuted, yet somehow . . .’

‘He always comes back to life!’ said Imogen, smiling at me.

‘You mean she’s resuscitated?’ said George.

‘Like Fool’s Gold meets ER meets The Passion of the Christ!’ enthused Damian, adding hurriedly, ‘but without the Jewish controversy.’

‘Try it, send us the rewrite by Thursday and see how it comes off the page,’ said George in his deep voice. ‘Right, I’ve gotta go. I’ve got a conference call.’

The phone vibrated. Roxster: <Is there any food in the meeting?>

Once euphoric farewells were made – ‘You did really well in there! I love your dress’ – and hugs exchanged, whilst I tried to keep my head oddly at an angle because of the nits (I mean, what if they got in Damian’s lopsided haircut?), I sat down in reception and looked at my latest texts.

Chloe: <Billy OK now. So will let Cosmata’s mother pick up Mabel then I’ll pick up Billy and take to pick up Mabel?>

Roxster: <Have just left office for calming cold shower – over food, you understand, not dress/meeting fantasy. Supply full food list?>

Instead of processing the whole meeting, calling Brian to get him to get them to give me more time, then rushing home to see how Billy is, and having a serious think about telling Chloe she has to make decisions herself if I am in important meetings, I replied to Roxster with a complete list of every item of food in the meeting, adding: <I doubt your head would have been up my dress.>