Mad About the Boy (Bridget Jones 3)

‘There are some really lovely things in there,’ said Imogen.

‘Thank you!’ I beamed. ‘I’ve made some notes for our discussion and—’

The phone vibrated. Was Chloe.

Mind reeled over Latin-verb-declension-like morass of children’s names – Cosmo, Cosmas, Cosmata, Theo, Thea, Thelonius, Atticarse – and hideous pickup/sick dilemma, wondering what Power Mothers did in similar situations.

‘Basically we think the whole tone and the updating of the Hedda story is great,’ Imogen was saying.

‘The Hedda character,’ added George tersely. Imogen coloured slightly, seeming to take this as some kind of rebuke, then continued: ‘We think the idea of a woman dissatisfied with her lot, and torn between a sensible-choice husband and a wildly creative—’

‘Exactly, exactly,’ I said as the phone vibrated again. ‘I mean, even though it was a long time ago, women are still making these decisions. And I think Queen’s Park has exactly the sort of—’

Glanced furtively at the text. Roxster!

‘Right, right, what we’re thinking is – we set it in Hawaii,’ George interrupted.

‘HAWAII?’ I said.

‘Yes.’

Realizing this might be a crucial juncture, I gathered my courage, and added: ‘Although, it is meant to be more Norwegian. So like, in November, all dark and miserable, in a dark, depressing house in Queen’s Park.’

‘It could be Kauai,’ said Imogen encouragingly. ‘It rains all the time there.’

‘So instead of being in, like, a dark depressing house it’s—’

‘On a yacht!’ said Imogen. ‘We want to bring in a sort of 60s/70s glamorous feel.’

‘Like The Pink Panther,’ interjected Damian.

‘You mean it’s going to be a cartoon?’ I said, furtively texting under the desk.

‘No, no, you know, like the original Pink Panther with David Niven and Peter Sellers,’ said Imogen.

‘Wasn’t that set in Paris and Gstaad?’

‘Well, yes, but it’s the feel we’re after. The mood,’ said Imogen.

‘A yacht in Hawaii with a Paris/Gstaad sort of feel?’ I said.

‘Where it’s raining,’ said Imogen.

‘Dark, dark, cloudy skies,’ added Damian.

I slumped. The whole thing wa

s meant to be about everything being disappointing and shabby. But, importantly, as Brian the Agent says, if you’re a screenwriter you don’t want to be sort of a nuisance.

The phone vibrated. Roxster.

‘So . . .’ said George. ‘Hedda is Kate Hudson.’

‘Right, right.’ I nodded, writing ‘Kate Hudson’ in my iPhone notes and quickly texting while trying not to think about Roxster’s head up my dress.

‘The boring husband is Leonardo DiCaprio and then the alcoholic ex is . . .?’

‘Heath Ledger,’ Damian said quickly.