Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(65)

‘Hello?’ George loomed up right in front of me, jerking me back into the present moment.

‘Hello,’ I said confusedly, quickly pressing ‘Send’ on my text to Roxster. <Blowjob by blowjob?> Why was George saying ‘Hello?’ when we’d already said hello in the corridor ten minutes ago?

‘You’re sitting there like this,’ said George, then did exactly the same imitation Billy does of me with a vacant expression and my mouth hanging open.

‘I’m thinking,’ I said, turning off my phone, which emitted a quack. Hurriedly turned it back on. Or off.

‘Well, don’t,’ he said. ‘Don’t think. Right. We’ll have to make this quick, I’m just leaving for Ladakh.’

You see! Ladakh?

‘Oh! Are you making a film in Ladakh?’ I asked innocently whilst preconceivedly judging him for going to Ladakh for NO REASON except to go to Ladakh, and glancing down to see who the quacking text was from.

‘No,’ said George, busily looking in all his pockets for something. ‘No, it’s not Ladakh, it’s . . .’ A panicked gleam came into his eyes. ‘Lahore. I’ll be back in five.’

He swept back out of the door, presumably to ask his assistant where he was actually going. Text was from Jude.

<He’s just said he wants me to wee on him.>

Quickly texted Jude back.

<Everyone has their little ‘kinks’. Maybe you could just do a modified version of making him feel disgusting, sometimes, as a special treat?>

Jude: <Like wee on him?>

Me: <No. Say: I am NOT prepared to wee on you, but I will . . .>

Suddenly two texts came in. The first was Jude’s reply:

<‘Tread on your balls’? That’s one of the things he wants. I mean, it would puncture them.>

Clicked the other text, thinking maybe Roxster? It was from George.

<Are you interested in meeting your new director at all, or are you just going to sit here texting?>

Looked up and nearly choked. George had somehow got back into the boardroom without me noticing, and was sitting opposite with a small, hip-looking guy in a black shirt, greying stubble-beard and Steven Spielberg round glasses, but with one of those slightly raddled, alcoholic-looking faces, which is different from Steven Spielberg’s cheery ‘I’d never have a facial peel but I look as though I have!’ glow.

I blinked at them, then suddenly leaped to my feet, holding out my hand across the boardroom table with a gay smile.

‘Dougieeeeeeeee! It’s so nice to meet you at last. I’ve heard SO much about you! How are you? Have you come far?’

Why do I turn into a Girl Guide/Her Majesty the Queen whenever I feel uncomfortable?

Fortunately, just then George’s assistant rushed in, looking flustered and whispered, ‘It’s not Lahore, it’s Le Touquet.’ At which George abruptly left, leaving Dougie and I to spend quite a lot of quality ‘exploring time’. This consisted of me actually – for once! – being allowed to talk properly about the feminist themes in Hedda Gabler, while Imogen looked on with a fixed smile.

Dougie, on the other hand, seemed really enthusiastic. He kept shaking his head in admiration and saying, ‘Yup, you’ve got it.’ I really think Dougie is going to be an ally in making sure that Leaves (as we now simply call it) stays true to its basic heart.

However, after Dougie had left, miming two thumbs on a phone and saying, ‘We’ll talk,’ the conversation almost seemed to turn against Dougie.

‘He, like, rurely needs this,’ said Damian dismissively.

‘So needs it,’ said Imogen. ‘Look, Bridget, this is absolutely, you know, lips-sealed, but I think we have an actress!’

‘An actress?’ I said excitedly.

‘Ambergris Bilk,’ she whispered.

‘Ambergris Bilk?’ I said disbelievingly. Ambergris Bilk wanted to be in my movie? Oh. My. God.

‘I mean, has she read it?’

Imogen gave me an indulgent, closed-mouth twinkly smile, the same sort of smile I use when telling Billy he’s earned his Wizard101 crowns for emptying the dishwasher (though not, of course, licking the plates).

‘She loves it,’ said Imogen. ‘The only thing is, she’s not one hundred per cent sure about Dougie.’





THE TROUBLE WITH OUTFITS


Thursday 16 May 2013

10.30 a.m. Mmmm. Another dreamy night with Roxster. Tried to engage him in conversation about the skinny-jeans issue but he had no interest in the matter whatsoever and said he liked me best with no clothes on.

11.30 a.m. Just had a ‘conference’ call with George, Imogen and Damian, to talk about me meeting Ambergris Bilk, who is over in London. Love conference calls, and the ability they give one to mime throat-slitting and toilet-flushing actions whenever anyone says something which vaguely annoys you.

‘So here’s the thing,’ said George. There was a loud mechanical roar in the background.

‘I think we’ve lost him,’ said Imogen. ‘Hang on.’

Just had another look at Grazia. Scarf is the thing I am missing with the skinny-jeans look, clearly. A floaty bohemian scarf, double-looped round the neck. Hmm. Also what am I going to wear for Talitha’s party? Maybe New Spring Whites? Gaah! They’re back. Greenlight, I mean. Not New Spring Whites.