Mad About the Boy (Bridget Jones 3)

Text pinged up from Talitha.

‘It’s really good – but “What are you up to?” Isn’t that a bit . . .?’

‘Don’t overthink it. Just send it. Frankly, I won’t blame him if he takes three days to reply out of pique.’

I sent it. Then regretted it at once and headed for the fridge.

Just as I’d taken out a bag of grated cheese and the wine bottle the text pinged.

Roxster is fantastic. I don’t even need to text Talitha or check Dating Rules to see if that’s an invitation. It is! It definitely is! Oh no, but it’s St Oswald’s House Hard-Hats-Offing this weekend. And I can’t tell Roxster my mum’s in a retirement community because his mum might be the same age as me.

Then, remembering I had to make it easy for him to create a date, I added:

There was a worrying pause.

HARD-HATS-OFFING!

Saturday 26 January 2013

134lb (worrying slide back into obesity to be blamed on Mum), texts from Roxster 42, minutes spent imagining date with Roxster 242, babysitters to enable self to have date with Roxster 0.

10.30 a.m. The day of the St Oswald’s House Hard-Hats-Offing is upon us. The phone rang just as I was struggling to persuade Mabel out of the glittery T-shirt and purple leggings she’d somehow put on when I was upstairs (Mabel refuses to accept that leggings are more in the tights department than the trousers department and really need something else on top) and into the dress-and-cardi set Mum had sent for her, straight out of the 1950s, white, covered in red hearts with a sticky-out skirt and a big red sash tied in a bow at the back.

‘Bridget, you’re not going to be late, are you? It’s just that Philip Hollobine and Nick Bowering are speaking on the dot of one, so we can still have lunch.’

‘Who are Philip Hollobine and Nick Bowering?’ I said, marvelling at my mother’s ability to airily bandy about names-one-has-never-heard-of, as if name-dropping top Hollywood celebrities.

‘You know Philip, darling. Philip? The MP for Kettering! He’s ever so good with the St Oswald’s events, though Una says it’s just because he knows he’ll get his face in the paper because Nick’s in with the Kettering Examiner.’

‘Who’s Nick?’ I said, hissing, ‘Just TRY it, darling,’ to Mabel, in an eerie, down-the-generations echo of my mother trying to force me into Country Casuals two-pieces.

‘You know Nick, darling. Nick! He’s the overall CEO of TGL,’ adding quickly, ‘Thornton Gracious Living! I also want you to meet’ – her voice suddenly dropped an octave – ‘Paul, the pastry chef.’ Something about the way she said ‘Pawl’, with a French accent, made me sense trouble. ‘You’re not going to wear black, are you? Wear something nice and bright! Red – Valentine’s Day coming soon!’

11 a.m. Eventually managed to get Mum off the phone and Mabel into the actually adorable red-and-white dress.

‘I used to wear dresses like this,’ I said wistfully.

‘Oh. Was you born in de Victorian Times?’ asked Mabel.

‘No!’ I said indignantly.

‘Oh. Wad it de Renaissance Era?’

Quickly turned mind to Roxster and our texting. Have even told him about the kids and he seems unfazed. Texting really puts an enjoyable spin on everything and I realize, with a sense of shame and irresponsibility towards followers, seems totally to have replaced my obsession with Twitter.

Realize Twitter has a bad effect on character, making me obsessed with how many followers I have, self-conscious and regretful as soon as I have sent a tweet, and guilty if I do not report any minor events in my life to the Twitter followers, at which a number of them immediately disappear.

‘Mummy!’ said Billy. ‘Why are you staring into space like that?’

‘Sorry,’ I said, glancing, panicked, at the clock. ‘Gaaah! We’re late!’ Then immediately started running about parroting discombobulated orders – ‘Put your shoes on, put your shoes on.’ In the midst of it all, I got a text from Chloe saying she really, actually, definitely couldn’t babysit on Friday night.

Text represents total disaster, throwing whole Roxster date into grave peril. Rebecca is going to her ‘in-laws’ (even though not married) for the weekend, Tom is in Sitges for a birthday party (he got a suite with a 40 sq. metre terrace and a chromotherapy tub for £297 plus tax), Talitha doesn’t do children, Jude is on a second date, which is great – but what am I going to do?

As we roared, late, towards Kettering, I suddenly had a genius idea: maybe I could ask Mum to babysit! Maybe she could have Billy and Mabel at St Oswald’s House for the night!

THE BARNACLE’S PENIS

Saturday 26 January 2013 (continued)