Mad About the Boy (Bridget Jones 3)

‘Everything all right up there?’

‘Is Mr Wolkda,’ said Mabel.

I peered awkwardly down over my shoulder.

It was indeed Mr Wallaker, running, in sweatpants and a grey T-shirt, looking like he was on an assault course.

‘Everything all right?’ he said again, stopping suddenly below us. He was oddly ripped for a schoolteacher, but staring in his usual annoying, judgemental way.

‘Yes, no, everything’s great!’ I trilled. ‘Just, um, climbing a tree!’

‘Yes, I see that.’

Great, I thought. Now he’ll tell everyone at school I’m a completely irresponsible mother letting the children climb trees. Jeans were now slipping below my bottom-cleavage, my black lacy thong on full display.

‘Right. Good. Well. I’ll be off then. Bye!’

‘Bye!’ I called gaily over my shoulder, then reconsidered. ‘Um . . . Mr Wallaker?’

‘Yeeees?’

‘Could you just . . .?’

‘Billy,’ said Mr Wallaker, ‘let go of your mum, hold onto the branch, and sit down on it.’

I released my frozen arm from Billy and put it round Mabel’s back.

‘There you go. Now. Look at me. When I count to three, I want you to do what I say.’

‘OK!’ said Billy cheerfully.

‘One . . . two . . . and . . . jump!’

I leaned back and nearly screamed as Billy jumped out of the tree. What was Mr Wallaker doing?

‘Aaaaaaand . . . roll!’

Billy landed, did a strange military-style roll and stood up, beaming.

‘Now, Mrs Darcy, if you’ll forgive me . . .’ Mr Wallaker hoisted himself into the lower branches. ‘I’m going to take hold of . . .’ Me? My thong? ‘. . . Mabel,’ he said, reaching his arms past me to put his big hands round Mabel’s plump little form. ‘And you wriggle out and jump down.’

Trying to ignore the exasperating frisson brought on by the scent and closeness of Mr Wallaker, I did what he said and jumped down, trying to pull up the jeans. He took Mabel in one strong scoop of his arm, leaned her on his shoulder and placed her on the grass.

‘I thaid Fuckoon,’ said Mabel, looking at him gravely.

‘I nearly said that, too,’ said Mr Wallaker. ‘But we’re all all right now, aren’t we?’

‘Will you play football with me?’ said Billy.

‘Got to get home, I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘to er . . . the family. Now try to avoid the upper branches.’

He started running off again, pumping his arms up and down with palms extended. Who did he think he was?

Suddenly found self shouting after him: ‘Mr Wallaker?’

He turned. Did not know what had intended to say. Mind whirring frantically, I shouted, ‘Thank you.’ Then added, for no reason whatsoever, ‘Will you follow me on Twitter?’

‘Absolutely not,’ he said dismissively, then started running off again.