Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(99)

‘Yeth,’ she said solemnly. ‘But Mr Wallaker’th bossy.’

Incredibly, in the midst of the pandemonium, the BMW dad again opened the car door, and this time he actually climbed out, brushing huffily at his overcoat, at which the whole vehicle started sliding backwards.

‘IT’S COMING DOWN!’ Mr Wallaker yelled from below. ‘GET OUT, GUYS!’

We all rushed forward to see Mr Wallaker and the firemen jumping clear as the BMW crashed down onto the steel pole, then bounced, rolled and smashed on its side, sleek metal cracking, windows shattering, broken glass and debris all over the cream leather seats.

‘My Bima!’ shouted the dad.

‘Time is money, dickhead,’ Mr Wallaker retorted, grinning delightedly.

As the paramedics tried to look him over, Billy was explaining, ‘We couldn’t move, you see, Mummy. We daren’t run because that post was wobbling right above us. But then we were Superheroes because . . .’

Meanwhile, chaos was breaking out around us, parents running crazily round in circles, hair extensions flying, enormous handbags lying forgotten on the ground.

Mr Wallaker jumped onto the steps.

‘Quiet!’ he shouted. ‘Everyone stand still! Now, boys. In a second you’ll be lining up to be checked and counted. But first, listen up. You just had a real adventure. No one got hurt. You were brave, you were calm, and three of you – Bikram, Jeremiah and Billy – were cut-and-dried Superheroes. Tonight you’re to go home and celebrate, because you’ve proved that when scary stuff happens – which it will – you know how to be brave and calm.’

Cheers went up from the boys and parents. ‘Oh my God,’ said Farzia. ‘Take me now’ – rather echoing my own sentiments. As Mr Wallaker passed me, he shot me a smug little look, endearingly Billy-like.

‘All in a day’s work?’ I said.

‘Seen worse,’ he said cheerfully, ‘and at least your hair didn’t blow up.’

After the counting, Bikram, Billy and Jeremiah were mobbed by the other boys. The three of them had to go to hospital to be checked out. When they climbed into the ambulances, followed by their traumatized mothers, it was with the air of a newly famous boy band from Britain’s Got Talent.

Mabel fell asleep in the ambulance and slept through the checkups. The boys were fine, apart from a few scratches. Bikram’s and Jeremiah’s fathers turned up at the hospital. A few minutes later Mr Wallaker appeared, grinning, with bags of McDonald’s and went over every detail of what had happened with the boys, answering all their questions and explaining exactly how and why they’d been Action Heroes.

As Jeremiah and Bikram left with their parents, Mr Wallaker held out my car keys.

‘You OK?’ He took one look at my face and said, ‘I’ll drive you home.’

‘No! I’m absolutely fine!’ I lied.

‘Listen,’ he said with his slight smile. ‘It doesn’t make you less of a top professional feminist if you let somebody help you.’

Back home, as I settled the children on the sofa, Mr Wallaker said quietly, ‘What do you need?’

‘Their cuddly toys? They’re upstairs in the bunk beds.’

‘Puffle Two?’

‘Yes. And One and Three, Mario, Horsio and Saliva.’

‘Saliva?’

‘Her dolly.’

As he came back with the toys, I was trying to turn on the TV, staring at the remotes. ‘Shall I have a go?’

SpongeBob sprang into life, and he led me behind the sofa.

I started sobbing then, silently.

‘Shhh. Shhh,’ he whispered, putting his strong arms around me. ‘No one was hurt, I knew it was going to be fine.’

I leaned against him, sniffing and snuffling.

‘You’re doing all right, Bridget,’ he said softly. ‘You’re a good mum and dad, better than some who have a staff of eight and a flat in Monte Carlo. Even if you have put snot on my shirt.’

And it felt like the aeroplane door opening, when you arrive on holiday, with a rush of warm air. It felt like sitting down at the end of the day.

Then Mabel yelled, ‘Mummee! SpongeBob’th finished!’ and simultaneously the doorbell rang.

It was Rebecca. ‘We just heard about the school thing,’ she said, clattering down the stairs, a string of tiny LED Christmas lights woven into her hair. ‘What happened? Oh!’ she said, seeing Mr Wallaker. ‘Hello, Scott.’

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Good to see you. Headgear unexpectedly understated . . . but still.’

Finn, Oleander and Jake came over and the house was filled with noise and chocolate and Hellvanians and Xbox, and everyone running about. I kept trying to talk to Billy, and help him process what had happened, but he just said, ‘Mummeee! I’m a Superhero! OK?’

I watched Mr Wallaker talking to Jake, both of them tall, handsome, old friends, fathers. Rebecca looked at Mr Wallaker and raised her eyebrows at me, but then his phone rang, and I could just tell he was talking to Miranda.

‘I have to go,’ he said abruptly, clicking it off. ‘You guys will look after them tonight, right, Jake?’

Heart sinking, I followed him up to the doorstep and started to gabble, ‘I’m so grateful. It’s you who is the Superhero. I mean are. I mean is.’