Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(76)

Dear Bridget,

Just checking that you got the notes from Ambergris on the script for tomorrow’s meeting to meet Saffron. Could you confirm that you can be at the meeting to give your notes on Ambergris’s notes for Saffron?

Hope you’re not about to slash your wrists, because I am.

Imogen x

What meeting? What notes? Who is ‘Saffron’?

Spooled frantically through morass of emails about Sports Day fruits and vegetables, Zombie Apocalypse, Ocado, ASOS, Net-a-Porter, Mexican Viagra, etc., then realized it was time to pick up Mabel.

4.30 p.m. Mabel and Billy just had argument all the way home over whether a triathlon with five sports was called a Quintathlon or Pentathlon.

‘It is!’

‘It isn’t.’

Tried to work out feebly how many sides a pentagon had or remember what five was in Latin, and ended up nearly crashing the car and yelling, ‘Look, will you just shut up?!’ then going into paroxysms of guilt while they started on what the five sports were and Mabel said one of them was ‘Tape measuring’.

‘Tape measuring?’ Billy said incredulously, at which Mabel burst into tears and said, ‘Dey do do tape measuring.’

9.15 p.m. Just read article in the paper about David Cameron saying he keeps getting calls from heads of state when the kids are in the back of the car, recounting putting his hand over the receiver and hissing, ‘Look, will you SHUT UP?’ while talking to the Israeli Prime Minister.

So maybe it isn’t just me.





FRANTIC


Wednesday 12 June 2013

8 a.m. Right. Greenlight meeting is at nine so have managed to get Chloe to do school run, and then I will do school pickup instead.

8.10 a.m. Just have to wash hair and get dressed.

8.15 a.m. Disaster. Navy silk dress is at the dry-cleaner’s and forgot to ask Chloe to get mountain of red and yellow peppers ready for tomorrow, and still have to wash hair.

8.45 a.m. On bus, nearly there. Feel trussed up like a chicken in black evening dress, which was only clean meeting-like garment could find. Looked OK in mirror because it is corset-like which holds everything in when standing up, giving one a taut hourglass shape, with, admittedly, a lace top, but have put Grazia blazer on top, though now boiling, to create pleasingly eclectic Good Luck Charlie daughter effect.

However, on glimpsing in shop window realized outfit insane. Now am on bus, remember also that corset-like nature of dress is torture when sitting down. One’s rolls of fat are squeezed together like dough being kneaded in a food processor. Also, whole effect has something of the dominatrix about it, which is the last thing I am able to pull off when mental state would be more authentically represented by a duvet, hot-water bottle and Puffle One. Plus hair has gone into weird square bouffe like Mum and Una as if I am wearing a hat.

Did manage to find and read Ambergris Bilk’s notes overnight, but now confused because The Leaves in His Hair seems, in Ambergris’s mind, to have moved to Stockholm. Does she know George is stuck with the yacht in Hawaii because of the stoner movie falling over? And will George think I was trying to talk Ambergris back to Norway and she disguised it as Sweden? Actually, will ask Chloe to get some Pimm’s as well as don’t see how can otherwise get through Sports Day in sub-glacial temperatures. Gaaah! Text from Roxster.

<Are we having dinner tonight?>

Dinner tonight? Did we say we were having dinner tonight? Oh, shit, now have not got babysitter and . . . had better go to meeting.

3 p.m. Nightmare meeting. ‘Saffron’ turned out to be the new screenwriter, who is, of course, twenty-six, and has just written a pilot – ‘Girls meets Game of Thrones meets The Killing’ – which is about to be ‘picked up’ by HBO (before, I thought with un-Buddhist spiteful hope, it ‘falls over’). Felt like some embarrassing evening-dress-with-blazer-and-weird-hat-hair elephant in the room. Then accidentally put chair leg on handbag, which, unbeknownst to me, now contained Billy’s noise machine from the party bag from the African drumming party, and emitted a very long burp. Nobody laughed except Imogen.

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.