Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(87)

Slowly, a huge, orange harvest moon was rising over the woods. Couples were laughing together in their evening clothes, hugging their joint offspring, remembering all the shared years which had brought them there.

I stepped into the bushes where no one could see and wiped away a tear, taking a giant slurp of Diet Coke and wishing it was neat vodka. They were growing up. They weren’t babies any more. It was all going so fast. I realized I was not just sad, but scared: scared of trying not to get lost driving in the dark, scared of all the years ahead of doing this alone: concerts, prize-givings, Christmases, teenagers, problems . . .

‘You can’t even get plastered, can you?’

Mr Wallaker’s shirt looked very white in the moonlight. His profile, half in silhouette, looked almost noble.

‘You all right?’

‘Yes!’ I said indignantly, wiping my fist across my eyes. ‘Why do you keep BURSTING up on me? Why do you keep asking me if I’m all right?’

‘I know when a woman is foundering and pretending not to be.’

He took a step closer. The air was heavy with jasmine, roses.

I breathed unsteadily. It felt as though we were being drawn together by the moon. He reached out, like I was a child, or a Bambi or something, and touched my hair.

‘There aren’t any nits in here, are there?’ he said.

I raised my face, heady with the scent of him, feeling the roughness of his cheek against mine, his lips against my skin . . . then suddenly I remembered all those creepy married guys on the websites and burst out:

‘What are you DOING??? Just because I’m on my own, it doesn’t mean I’m, I’m DESPERATE and FAIR GAME. You’re MARRIED! “Oh, oh, I’m Mr Wallaker. I’m all married and perfect,” and what do you mean, “FOUNDERING”? And I know I’m a rubbish mother and single but you don’t have to rub my nose in it and—’

‘Billy!!!!!! Your mummy’s kissing Mr Wallaker!’

Billy, Bikram and Jeremiah burst out from the bushes.

‘Ah, Billy!’ Mr Wallaker said. ‘Your mummy’s just, er, hurt herself and—’

‘Did she hurt her mouth?’ said Billy, looking puzzled, at which Jeremiah, who had older brothers, spurted out laughing.

‘Ah! Mr Wallaker! I was looking for you!’

Oh GOD. Now it was Nicolette.

‘I was wondering if we should say a few words to the parents, to— Bridget! What are you doing here?’

‘Looking for some oatmeal cookies!’ I said brightly.

‘In the bushes? How odd.’

‘Can I have one? Can I have one?’ The boys, mercifully, started yelling and dive-bombing my bag, so I could bend down, covering my confusion.

‘I mean, I thought it would be nice to round things off,’ Nicolette went on. ‘People want to see you, Mr Wallaker. And hear you. I think you’re fiercely talented, I really do.’

‘Not sure a speech is quite the thing right now. Maybe just go down there and case it out? Would you mind, Mrs Martinez?’

‘No, of course,’ said Nicolette coldly, giving me a funny look, just as Atticus ran up saying, ‘Mummeee, I want to see my therapiiiiiist!’

‘Right,’ said Mr Wallaker, when Nicolette and the boys had disappeared. ‘You’ve made yourself very clear. I apologize. I will go back, to not make a speech.’

He was starting to head off, then turned. ‘But just for the record, other people’s lives are not always as perfect as they appear, once you crack the shell.’





THE HORROR, THE HORROR


Friday 5 July 2013

Dating sites checked 5, winks 0, messages 0, likes 0, online shopping sites visited 12, words of rewrite written 0.

9.30 a.m. Humph. OhMyGod. Well. Humph. ‘Foundering’? Man-whore. Lecherous sexist married bastard. Humph. Right. Must get on with Hedda-ing up – i.e. finding all of Hedda’s lines in the rewritten version and putting them back to the way they were in the first place. Which is actually quite fun!

9.31 a.m. The thing about Internet dating is, the minute you start feeling lonely, confused or desperate you can simply click on one of the sites and it’s like a sweetie shop! There are just millions of other quite plausible people all actually available, at least in theory. Have vision of offices up and down the country full of people pretending to work but clicking on Match.com and OkCupid and somehow getting through the lonely tedium of the day. Right, must get on.

10.31 a.m. Oh God. What was he DOING, Mr Wallaker? Does he do that all the time? It’s completely unprofessional.

What did he mean, ‘foundering’?

10.35 a.m. Just looked up foundering: ‘to proceed in confusion’.

Humph. Am going to go back online.

10.45 a.m. Just logged on:

0 people winked at you. 0 people chose you as their favourite.

0 people sent you a message.

Great.

11 a.m. Look at all these men-tarts. Married, but in an open relationship. You see?

12.15 p.m. Jude’s Internet dating was a nightmare – strings of communication with strangers suddenly left unanswered. I don’t want strange bits of men all over the place. Far better to get on with Leaves. Must figure out how the yacht/honeymoon could work in Sweden rather than Hawaii. I mean, Stockholm is warm in the summer, right? Doesn’t one of the girls from Abba live on an island off Stockholm?