Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(91)

I stared dramatically ahead, thinking, ‘I am brave, though I am alone,’ then realized that the phone was quacking somewhere. Where was it?

Eventually located phone in the downstairs toilet and jumped in alarm, seeing a string of texts from Chloe.

<Just had a call from your mum. Is your phone off? They’ve been thrown out of Fortnums.>

<She wants you to come. Mabel is crying and she’s forgotten the key.>

<She’s trying to find Hamleys and they’re lost.>

<Are you getting any of my texts?>

<OK. I’ve told her to get in a taxi and I’ll meet them at the house with the key.>

Just then the doorbell rang. Opened it to find Mum with Billy and Mabel – both crying, hot, sweaty and smeared with cake – on the doorstep.

Got everyone downstairs, telly on, computer on, Mum with a cup of tea when doorbell rang again.

Was Chloe, uncharacteristically in tears.

‘Chloe, I’m so sorry!’ I said. ‘I just turned the phone off for a little bit to just . . . get over something and missed all your—’

‘It’s not that!’ she wailed. ‘It’s Graham.’

It turned out Chloe and Graham had taken out a rowing boat on the Serpentine, and Chloe had prepared an immaculate picnic hamper with cutlery and china, at which Graham said, ‘I have something to say.’

Chloe, of course, thought Graham was going to ask her to marry him. And then he announced that he had met somebody in Houston on YoungFreeAndSingle.com and was getting transferred to Texas to go and live with her.

‘He said I was too perfect,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m not perfect. I just feel I have to pretend to be perfect. And you don’t like me either because you think I’m too perfect too.’

‘Oh, Chloe. I don’t! You’re not perfect!’ I said, throwing my arms around her.

‘Aren’t I?’ she said, looking at me hopefully.

‘No, yes,’ I gabbled. ‘I mean, not perfect, though you are great. And’ – I suddenly felt emotional – ‘I know middle-class working mothers always say this but I genuinely don’t know what I would do without you helping me, and being so perfe— I mean, so great. What I mean is, it’s just a relief that everything in your life isn’t completely perfect, though, obviously, I’m very sorry that that FUCKWIT Graham was so FUCKWITTED as to—’

‘But I thought you’d only like me if I was perfect.’

‘No, I was FRIGHTENED of you because you were perfect, because it made me feel so not perfect.’

‘But I always think YOU’RE perfect!’

‘Mummy, can we go up to our room? Granny’s being weird,’ said Billy, appearing up the stairs.

‘Granny’th got a tail,’ said Mabel.

‘Billy, Mabel!’ said Chloe delightedly. ‘Can I take them upstairs?’

‘Great, I’ll go and see to Granny. Check if she’s grown a tail,’ I said, looking sternly at Mabel and adding reassuringly to Chloe: ‘You’re not perfect.’

‘Aren’t I? You really mean it?’

‘No, really, definitely not perfect at all.’

‘Oh, thank you!’ she said. ‘Neither are you!’ and headed up the stairs with the children, looking and being absolutely perfect.

Got downstairs to find Mum, who, if she did have a tail, had hidden it very well beneath the coat-dress, banging through all the cupboards saying, ‘Where do you put the tea strainer?’

‘I use tea bags,’ I muttered grumpily.

‘Tea bags. Durr! I mean, you might have left the phone on! It’s only responsible if you have children who can’t behave themselves. What have you got on your top? Have you been out in that dress? The trouble with flesh pink is it can wash you out, can’t it?’

I burst into tears, straight in her face.

‘Now come on, Bridget, you’ve got to pull yourself together. You’ve got to soldier on, you can’t . . . you can’t . . . you can’t . . . you can’t . . . you can’t . . .’

I literally thought she was just never going to stop saying ‘you can’t’, but then she burst into tears too.

‘You’re not helping,’ I sobbed. ‘You just think I’m rubbish. You’re always trying to change me and think I’m doing it all wrong and make me wear different . . . COLOURS,’ I wailed.

Mum suddenly snuffled to a halt and stared at me.

‘Oh, Bridget, I’m so sorry,’ she said, almost in a whisper. ‘I’m so very, very sorry.’

She stumbled awkwardly, knelt in front of me, put her arms around me and pulled me to her. ‘My little girl.’

It was the first time I’d actually felt Mum’s bouffe. It was crispy, almost solid. She didn’t seem to mind it being squashed as she held me close. I really liked it. I wanted her to give me a bottle of warm milk or something.

‘It was so dreadful. So dreadful what happened to Mark. I couldn’t bear to think. You’re doing so . . . Oh, Bridget. I miss Daddy. I miss him so much, so much. But you’ve . . . got to . . . you’ve got to just keep going, haven’t you? That’s half the battle.’

‘No,’ I wailed. ‘It’s just papering over the cracks.’