Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(77)

As we were driving home, Billy said, ‘Mummy?’

‘Yes,’ I said vaguely, trying to dodge a cyclist who had just veered out in front of me.

‘It’s Father’s Day on Sunday. We made cards.’

‘We did too,’ said Mabel.

As soon as I could, I pulled over and cut the engine. I wiped my face with both hands, rubbing my eyes for a second, then turned to look at them.

‘Can I see the cards?’

They scrabbled in their bags. Mabel’s was of a family with a daddy, a mummy, a little girl and a little boy. Billy’s drawing was contained in a heart, with a little boy playing a game with his father. It said ‘Daddy’.

‘Can we post dem to Daddy?’ said Mabel.

When we got home, I got out all the photos of them with Mark – Billy in a little suit, the same as Mark’s, standing together, the same look on their faces, exactly the same pose, one hand in the trouser pocket. Mark holding Mabel up when she was newborn, like a little toy in her onesie. We talked about Daddy, and how I was sure he knew what we were doing, and he was loving us still. Then we went out and posted the cards.

Mabel had addressed hers ‘Daddy. Heaven. Space’. In the midst of feeling guilty about everything else I felt guilty about traumatizing the postman.

On the way home Billy said, ‘I wish we lived in a normal family, like Rebecca.’

‘That’s not a normal family,’ I said. ‘They never—’

‘Finn has Xbox in the week!’ said Billy.

‘Can we have SpongeBob now?’ said Mabel.

They were really tired. They fell asleep straight away after their bath.

8 p.m. Roxster will be here in half an hour. Am going to have a bath and re-wash hair, put make-up on, and try to find something suitable to wear for evening with person who may be about to either break up with me or produce an engagement ring.

8.10 p.m. In bath now. Gaah! Telephone.

8.15 p.m. Jumped out of the bath, wrapped self in towel and grabbed phone, to hear deep, powerful voice of George from Greenlight.

‘OK. We’re just on the tarmac in Denver. So, look, that went well today, but we don’t want you to lose . . . Santa Fe.’

‘But it’s in Stockholm!’ I said, suddenly realizing that I hadn’t put the chicken pie in.

‘Hang on, we’re disembarking . . . we don’t want you to lose your voice.’

What was he talking about? I hadn’t lost my voice. Had I?

‘Stockholm? No, I’m transferring to Santa Fe.’ Was he talking to me now, or the air hostess?

‘So. We want you to Hedda it up.’

‘Hedda it up?’ What could he possibly mean? Maybe he was talking to the pilot.

‘No, sorry, I meant Albuquerque.’

‘George!’ I yelled. ‘Aren’t you meant to be in Albufeira?’

‘What? WHAT?’

The phone went dead.

8.20 p.m. Just ran downstairs to put the chicken pie in the oven and the landline rang.

‘OK. What was that about Albufeira?’ George again.

‘It was a joke,’ I said, trying to open the chicken pie with my teeth. ‘I can’t concentrate on what you’re saying, because you’re always on a plane or some other mode of transport. Can’t we just talk about things calmly for TWO minutes with you in one place?’ I said, tucking the phone under my chin, opening the oven door with one hand and shoving the pie in with the other. ‘I can’t WORK with you rushing about like this! I need to concentrate.’

George suddenly switched into a purring, sensual, soothing voice I hadn’t heard before.

‘OK, OK. We think you’re a genius. Once this trip is over I’m going to be in the office all the time, all right? You just need to put back the special Hedda voice we love so much into all the Hedda lines when Saffron’s finished with them. And you’ll have my undivided, calm attention.’

‘OK, yes,’ I said frantically, wondering if I could glaze the pie before I dried my hair.

8.40 p.m. Phew. Thank goodness Roxster is a bit late. Everything is fine. Hair is normal. Chicken pie is not only in oven but GLAZED with beaten egg to give pleasing air of some form of cooking. Downstairs is looking all right, and lit by candles, and think silk shirt is OK and not too slutty as we have been sleeping together for months, and also everything else is either too uncomfortable or in the wash. Oh God, I’m so tired. Think will just have little sleep on sofa for a few minutes.

9.15 p.m. Gaaah! Is 9.15 and Roxster is not here. Have I slept through the doorbell?

Just texted Roxster.

<Fell asleep. Did I miss the doorbell?>

<Jonesey, I’m so sorry. I ended up having to have a curry with colleagues after work and now the buses are really slow. Should be about 10 more minutes.>

Stared at the text, mind reeling. A curry? Buses slow? Colleagues? Roxster doesn’t say ‘colleagues’. And what about the chicken pie? What was going on?

9.45 p.m. Roxster is still not here. Texted: <Estimated ETA?>

Roxster: <About 15 minutes. So sorry, darling.>





FARTING SPORTS DAY


Thursday 13 June 2013

136lb (bloody chicken pie, plus egg glaze), alcohol units 7 (counting last night), hangovers 1 (cataclysmic), temperature 90 degrees, peppers chopped 12, melon balls consumed 35, wrinkles appeared during course of day 45, number of times used word ‘fart’ in texts to Roxster 9 (undignified).