Mad About the Boy (Bridget Jones 3)

I looked at myself in the mirror. It really wasn’t good. I washed my face, straightened my hair with my fingers, emerged from the toilet and walked past Chloe with a gracious, lady-of-the-house smile, glossing over the fact that I was still dressed in a slip at eleven in the morning and she may have just heard me saying ‘Maaaaa’ in the toilet.

1 p.m. Mabel seemed quite excited about the finger. It actually wasn’t as bad as they’d made out, but still, it was hard to see how a responsible mother could have missed it if it really had been like that all the time.

At the doctor’s, stood in front of the two receptionists for four minutes while they calmly continued to type as if a) I wasn’t there and b) they were both writing contemplative poems. In the meantime Mabel was trotting happily around the waiting room, and picking up leaflets from the plastic wall display.

‘I’m going to weed!’ she said, and started reading out, ‘Guh oh nuh oh ruh.’

‘Well done, darling,’ I said, finally sitting down and desperately checking my texts to see if Greenlight or Roxster or indeed anyone had anything to say to make me feel better.

‘Guh, oh, nuh, oh, ruh, ruh, huh, oh, eh, ah.’

‘So clever!’ I murmured.

‘Gonorrhoea!’ she shouted triumphantly, opening the leaflet. ‘Oh, there’s pictures! Weed Gonorrhoea to me?’

‘Oh! Hahaha!’ I said, grabbing the leaflets and stuffing them in my handbag. ‘Let’s see if there are some more lovely leaflets,’ I said, staring glassily at an array of them in a variety of cheery colours: ‘Syphilis’, ‘Non-Specific Urethritis’, ‘Male and Female Condoms’ and – rather late in the day – ‘Pubic Lice’.

‘Let’s play with the toys!’ I trilled.

‘I can’t believe I didn’t notice it,’ I said, when we finally got in to the doctor.

‘They can flare up in a few moments,’ the doctor said supportively. ‘She just needs some antibiotics and she’ll be fine.’

After the doctor’s we went and bought some Disney Princess plasters from the chemist, and Mabel decided she wanted to go back to school.

2 p.m. Just got home, relieved to have house to self, and sat down to . . . What, though? Work? But I’ve been sacked, haven’t I? Everything looks dark and gloomy.

Oh, wait, am still wearing prescription sunglasses again.

3.15 p.m. Just spent twenty minutes staring melodramatically into space, trying not to imagine shooting myself like Hedda Gabler, then started googling skull or dagger pendants on Net-a-Porter instead. Then suddenly realized with a start it was time for Mabel and Billy’s school pickup.

6 p.m. I was in a complete flap when Mabel and I got to Billy’s school because we were late, and I had to go to the office first about Billy’s bassoon lessons. ‘Have you got the form?’ said Valerie, the school secretary. Started rifling through the mess that was my handbag, putting papers down on the counter.

‘Ah, Mr Wallaker,’ said Valerie.

I looked up and there he was, smirking as usual.

‘Everything going well?’ he said, still looking down at the mess. I followed his gaze. ‘Syphilis – Looking After Your Sexual Health’. ‘Gonorrhoea – Signs and Symptoms’. ‘Sexual Health Direct! A User’s Guide’.

‘They’re not mine,’ I said.

‘Right, right.’

‘They’re Mabel’s!’

‘Mabel’s! Well, in that case, that’s fine.’ He was actually shaking with mirth now. I grabbed the leaflets and stuffed them back in my bag.

‘Hey!’ said Mabel. ‘Dothe are my leafletth. Give them to me!’

Mabel reached into my bag and grabbed ‘Gonorrhoea – Signs and Symptoms’. I tried, undignified, to snatch it back, but Mabel wasn’t letting go.

‘They’re my leafletth,’ said Mabel accusingly, adding, for effect, ‘Dammit!’

‘And they’re very useful leaflets,’ said Mr Wallaker, bending down. ‘Why don’t you take this one as well and give the rest to Mummy?’

‘Thank you, Mr Wallaker,’ I said firmly but pleasantly, then, nose in the air, swept off graciously towards the school gates, nearly tripping over Mabel on the steps, but nevertheless making a reasonably elegant exit.

‘Bridget!’ roared Mr Wallaker suddenly, as if I was one of the boys. I turned, startled. He had never called me Bridget before.