Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(81)

‘Yes?’ I said, thinking, ‘They know, they know, we’re on terribly flimsy ground, and their mother is a Botoxed, failed cougar idiot who’s going to crash the car, and doesn’t know what she’s doing, what she’s supposed to be doing or how she’s supposed to do it, and they’re going to be taken into care by the Social Services and—’

‘Do dinosaurs have cold blood?’

‘Yes. Ubf, no?’ I said as I parked the car. Do they? ‘I fwmean, what are they? Are they repfhtiles or like phwdolpfhwins?’

‘Mummy, how long are you going to carry on talking like this?’

‘Can we have spag bog?’ said Mabel.

‘Yupf,’ I said, parking the car outside the house.

When we got inside it was all warm and cosy and I soon had the spag bog (supermarket ready-prepared and possibly containing horse but still) bubbling on the stove. They were sitting on the sofa listening to the annoying American-cartoons-where-actors-talk-in-high-pitched-hysterical-voices, but looking so sweet. Leaving the horse spaghetti, I sat down with them and pulled them into a hug-knot, and I buried my frozen face in their messy heads and soft necks, feeling their little hearts beating against mine, and thought how lucky I was, just to have them.

After a while Billy raised his head. ‘Mummy,’ he whispered softly, a faraway look in his eye.

‘Mbffff?’ I murmured, heart overflowing with love.

‘The spaghetti is on fire.’

Oh dear. Had left spaghetti in the pan with the dry bits leaning over the edge at a sharp angle, intending to squidge them down when the other end softened, but somehow they had tilted down and caught fire.

‘I’ll get de fire extinglewish,’ said Mabel calmly, as if this were an everyday occurrence. Which of course it is not.

‘Noo!’ I said, berserk, grabbing a tea towel and throwing it on the pan, at which the tea towel also caught fire and the smoke alarm went off.

Suddenly felt the splash of cold water. Turned to see Billy pouring a jug of cold water over the whole thing, extinguishing the flames and leaving a smouldering, but extinguished, mess on the cooker. He was grinning delightedly. ‘Can we eat it now?’

Mabel too was looking thrilled. ‘Can we toast marshbellowth?’

So (once Billy had turned the smoke alarm off) we did toast barshbellows. On the fire. In the fireplace. And it was one of our nicest evenings.





THAT’S WHAT FRIENDS ARE FOR


Saturday 22 June 2013

136lb, calories 3844, packets of grated mozzarella consumed 2, boyfriends 0, possibility of boyfriends 0, combined alcohol units consumed by self and the friends 47.

‘Well, at least she’s not a Born-Again Virgin,’ said Tom. ‘Rather the opposite if you ask me. More like a Born-Again Nymphomaniac. With a frozen face. Have we run out of wine?’

‘There’s some more in the fridge,’ I said, getting up. ‘But you see—’

‘Tom, do be quiet, darling,’ chided Talitha. ‘Her face looks really, really good now the drooling’s stopped.’

‘The key thing is, she has to get over the toy boy,’ said Jude, who is STILL going out with Wildlifephotographerman.

‘It’s not just that, it’s—’ I tried to get in.

‘It’s the ego, it’s the ego which is at stake.’ Tom was pretending to be professional but was completely drunk. ‘It’s not a rejection. A person who goes from one extreme to the other like that isn’t rejecting you. He’s just caught between his heart and his head and—’

‘Bridget, I did warn you that one must never, EVER fall in love with a toy boy,’ interrupted Talitha. ‘One has to be in control, otherwise the whole dynamic becomes a total disaster. I forbid you to re-engage with him. Tom, darling, could you just fix me a teensy-weensy vodka with lots of ice and a splash of soda?’

‘He’s not going to re-engage with me. I sent him a texting rant about farting,’ I said.

‘Number one,’ said Talitha, ‘he will re-engage, because his exit was a bang not a whimper, and number two, you are NOT to re-engage or it will become a whimper. Once a man has dumped you, taking him back is a sign of low self-esteem and desperation and he will do NOTHING but f*ck you around.’

‘But Mark took me back and—’

‘Roxster,’ said Tom, ‘is not Mark.’

At this, I burst into silent, gasping sobs.

‘Oh God,’ said Jude. ‘We have to find her someone else and quickly. I’m setting her up on OkCupid. What shall I put as her age?’

‘No, don’t,’ I sobbed. ‘I have to Take the Stick, like it says in Zen and the Art of Falling in Love. I have to be punished. I’ve neglected the children and—’

‘They’s fine! You’se gone mad. Where’ye put your iPhoto library?’

‘Jude,’ said Tom, ‘leave her alone, leave her to me. I. Am ssprofessional. I. Am a doctor of pyscholosphy.’

There was silence for a moment. ‘Thanks you,’ said Tom. ‘You are dealing with six things in a relationship. Theirs fantasy about you. Theirs fantasy about the relationship, your fantasy about them, their fantasy about your fantasy about themselves and – how many is that? Oh. Their fantasy about . . . thems!’