Mad About the Boy (Bridget Jones 3)

‘Oh, please,’ said Talitha. ‘How many minutes till the edginess of “pop-up” anything has popped down?’

‘Anyway,’ said Jude. ‘Who bothers to meet people in real life any more?’

‘But Jude, there are actual live people there. And Americana bands, and sofas – you can talk and dance, and make out with people.’

‘Why would you do all that before you’ve found out in one click whether they’re divorced or separated-with-kids, like bungee jumping more than going to the movies, know how to spell, know not to use the expression “lol” or “special lady” without irony, and whether they think the world would be a better place if people with low IQs were not allowed to reproduce?’

‘Well, at least you’ll know they’re not a photograph from fifteen years ago,’ said Tom.

‘We’re going,’ said Talitha.

Upshot is, we are off to the Stronghold in Hoxton on Thursday.

Wednesday 5 September 2012

Acts of screenplay written 2.5, attempts to find babysitter 5, babysitters found 0.

9.15 p.m. Disaster. Forgot to ask Chloe about babysitting tomorrow, and she is going to watch Graham compete in the South of England t’ai chi semi-final.

‘I’d love to help, Bridget, but t’ai chi means an enormous amount to Graham. I can definitely do the school run on Friday morning, though, so you can sleep in.’

What am I going to do?

Cannot ask Tom as he is coming to the Stronghold, ditto Jude and Talitha, plus Talitha does not do children since she says she has done that and only uses hers if she needs a walker for charity auctions.

9.30 p.m. Just called Mum.

‘Oh, darling, I’d love to but it’s the Viva Supper tomorrow! We’re doing Ham in Coca-Cola. Everyone is doing things in Coca-Cola now!’

Am slumped at kitchen table, trying not to think about everyone doing things in Coca-Cola in the Viva spa. It’s SO UNFAIR. Am trying my best to rediscover myself as a woman but now am up shit creek without a . . . Oh! What about Daniel?

A DANIEL IN SHINING ARMOUR

Wednesday 5 September 2012 (continued)

‘Jones, you little devil,’ growled Daniel when I called. ‘What are you wearing, what colour are your knickers and how are my godchildren?’

Daniel Cleaver, my former Emotional Fuckwit ‘boyfriend’ and Mark’s former arch-enemy, has, to his credit, really done his best to help since Mark was killed. After years of bitter one-upmanship, when Billy arrived the two of them finally made it up and Daniel is actually the children’s godfather.

Daniel’s best isn’t exactly everyone’s best: the last time he had them to stay, it turned out he just wanted to impress some girl by boasting that he had godchildren and . . . suffice it to say he dropped them off at school three hours late, and when I picked up Mabel later, her hair was in an incredibly complex plaited chignon.

‘Mabel, what fabulous hair!’ I said, imagining Daniel had brought John Frieda in to do full hair and make-up on Mabel at 7.30 a.m.

‘De teacher did it,’ said Mabel. ‘Daniel brushed my hair wid a fork,’ adding, ‘it had maple syrup on it.’

‘Jones? Are you still there, Jones?’

‘Yes,’ I said, startled.

‘Babysitting call, Jones?’

‘Would you . . .?’

‘Absolutely. When were you thinking?’

I cringed: ‘Tomorrow?’

There was a slight pause. Daniel was obviously doing something.