Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(80)

What could I say? Telling her he’d dumped me for being too old would be like telling the troops in the First World War trenches that it looked as though the Germans were winning.

‘There’s everything to be said for the younger man,’ I said. ‘You look fabulous.’

And she teetered off, giggling, and I could swear, at two in the afternoon, slightly drunk.

Well, at least something good has come out of it all, I muttered to myself. And her Botox looked great, so maybe mine would too!

Friday 21 June 2013

Remaining consonants able to pronounce 0.

2.30 p.m. Oh my God. Oh my God. Something really weird is happening to my mouth. It’s all swelling up inside.

2.35 p.m. Just looked in mirror. Lips are sticking out. Mouth is puffed up and sort of paralysed.

2.40 p.m. Billy’s school just rang about the bassoon lessons and cannot speak properly. Cannot easily say Ps or Bs or Fs. What am I going to do? Am going to be like this for next three months.

2.50 p.m. Have started drooling. Cannot control mouth so drool is coming out of side of mouth like – ironically enough given objective was to look younger – stroke ‘victim’ in old people’s home. Have to keep dabbing at it with a tissue.

2.55 p.m. Called up Talitha and tried to expbflain.

‘But it shouldn’t do that. You should go back. Something must have gone wrong. It’s probably an allergic reaction. It’ll wear off.’

3.15 p.m. Have got to do school run. Actually it will be fine. Will simply drape a scarf round my mouth. People don’t notice specific bits of other people, they see the whole.

3.30 p.m. Collected Mabel, with scarf draped around mouth like Masked Raider. Took scarf off gratefully in car, and turned round to do usual complex body-contorting movement in order to get the seat belt into the thing. At least Mabel hasn’t noticed, munching happily away at her snack.

3.45 p.m. Ugh, traffic is terrible. Why do people drive these enormous SUV things in London? It’s like once they’re in one, they think they’re driving a tank and everyone has to get out of their . . .

‘Mummy?’

‘Yes, Mabel.’

‘Your mouth looks all funny.’

‘Oh,’ I said, successfully avoiding consonants.

‘Why is your mouth all funny?’

Attempted to say ‘because’ but fuffing noise came out: ‘Pfecase I’pf . . .’

‘Mummy, why are you talking funny?’

‘It’s pfine, Bfafell, just by bouth is a bit pfoorly.’

‘What did you say, Mother?’

‘It’s all good, Daughter,’ I managed. You see, if I can just stick to vowels and guttural and sibilant consonants it’s bpffine!

4 p.m. Put scarf round mouth again and took worried-looking Mabel by her little hand, into the Junior Branch.

Billy was playing football. Tried to yell, but how could I say ‘Bfpilly’?

‘Oi,’ I attempted to shout. ‘Illy!’ Billy glanced up briefly, then carried on playing football. ‘Illy!’

How was I going to get him out of the playground? And they were having such a nice time running about but then had only got five minutes left on the car because it was in a loading bay.

‘ILLYYYYYY!’ I yelled.

‘Everything OK?’

I turned. It was Mr Wallaker. ‘A muffler? Are you cold? Doesn’t feel very cold to me,’ he said, rubbing his hands as if to check out the general temperature. He was wearing a blue businessman-type shirt and I could sense his lean, annoyingly fit body through it.

‘Bbdentist.’

‘I’m sorry?’

I quickly moved the scarf, said ‘Bbdentist’ again and put the scarf back. There was a quick flicker of amusement in his eyes.

‘Mummy’th mouth’th all funny,’ Mabel said.

‘Poor Mummy,’ said Mr Wallaker, bending down to Mabel. ‘What’s going on with your shoes? Have you got them on the wrong feet?’

Oh God. Was so preoccupied with Botox trauma did not notice. Mr Wallaker was swapping them efficiently.

‘Billy won’t come,’ said Mabel in her deep gruff voice, looking at him with her grave expression.

‘Really?’ Mr Wallaker got to his feet. ‘Billy!’ he called down authoritatively. Billy looked up, startled.

Mr Wallaker jerked his head to beckon him, at which Billy obediently trotted through the gate towards us.

‘Your mum was waiting for you. You knew that. Next time your mum is waiting for you, you come straight away. Got it?’

‘Yes, Mr Wallaker.’

He turned to me. ‘Are you OK?’

Suddenly, horrifyingly, felt my eyes filling with tears.

‘Billy. Mabel. Your mum’s been to the dentist and she’s feeling poorly. Now. I want you to be a little lady and a little gentleman and be nice to her.’

‘Yes, Mr Wallaker,’ they said, like automatons, putting out their hands to hold mine.

‘Very good. And, Mrs Darcy?’

‘Yes, Mr Wallaker?’

‘I wouldn’t do that again if I were you. You looked all right in the first place.’

When we reached our road, I suddenly realized I was driving on autopilot and had got the whole way home without noticing anything.

‘Mummy?’