Mad About the Boy (Bridget Jones 3)

‘Slightly see-through with the sun behind it.’

I looked down at the dress. Oh, fuck, it was see-through.

‘Good effect,’ he shouted, without looking back.

I stared after him, indignant, confused. He was just . . . just . . . sexist. He was reducing me to a helpless sex object and . . . he was married and . . . just . . . just . . .

I started to pick up the basket when a man in a waiter’s outfit appeared and said, ‘I’ve been asked to carry these down for you, madam,’ and another voice called, ‘Bridget!’ It was Farzia Seth, Bikram’s mum. ‘Come and sit with us!’

It was fine, because the husbands all sat on one side talking about business, so we girls could gossip, occasionally shoving food into overexcited offspring who swooped on us like seagulls.

When it was time for the concert, Nicolette, who was, naturally, Chair of the Concert Committee, started the proceedings with an astonishingly sycophantic speech about Mr Wallaker: ‘Inspiring, invigorating,’ etc., etc.

‘Arousing. Ejaculating. She’s changed her tune a bit since he came up with the stately home,’ muttered Farzia.

‘Is it his stately home?’ I said.

‘I dunno. He fixed it, anyway. And Nicolette’s been completely up his arse ever since. Wonder what the orange wife makes of it.’

As Nicolette finally drew to a close, Mr Wallaker jumped onto the terrace and strode in front of the band, silencing the applause.

‘Thank you,’ he said with a slight smile. ‘I must say I agree with every word. And now – the reason you’re here. I give you – Your. Sensational. Sons.’

And with that he raised his baton, the Big Swing Band burst into an enthusiastic – if slightly out of tune – flourish, and they were off. It was actually completely magical, the light softening, the music ringing out over the grounds.

The performance of ‘The Age of Aquarius’ by the recorder ensemble did not, it’s true, entirely lend itself to six-year-olds on recorders. We were all giggling helplessly, but I was glad to be giggling. Billy was one of the littlest ones, on near the end, and by the time it got to his turn I was beside myself with nerves. I watched him walk over to the piano with his music, looking so small and scared, and I just wanted to go and scoop him up. Then Mr Wallaker strode over, whispered something to Billy and sat down at the piano.

I didn’t know Mr Wallaker could play. He started with a surprisingly professional jazz introduction, and nodded to Billy to begin. Although there were no words, I could hear every one of them as Billy puffed his way painfully through ‘I’d Do Anything’, Mr Wallaker gently following every wrong note and wobble.

I would, Billy, I would do anything for you, I thought, tears welling up. My little boy, with all his struggles.

Applause broke out. Mr Wallaker whispered to Billy and glanced at me. Billy was bursting with pride.

Fortunately Eros and Atticus were taking the stand to perform their own adaptation of ‘The Trout Quintet’ on their flutes, bending and swooping in a pretentious manner which pulled me back from self-congratulatory and existentially despairing tears to suppressed hysteria again. And then it was all over and Billy rushed up, beaming, for a hug and then ran off with his little gang.

It was a warm, liquidy night: beaut

iful, romantic. The other parents drifted off, wandering down to the lake hand in hand. I sat on the rug on my own for a bit, wondering what to do. I was desperate for a drink, but driving. I realized the bag with the Diet Cokes and oatmeal cookies had got left behind. Glanced at Billy. He was still tearing around with his gang, all biffing each other over the head. I headed up to the bushes, found the bag and looked back at the scene.

Slowly, a huge, orange harvest moon was rising over the woods. Couples were laughing together in their evening clothes, hugging their joint offspring, remembering all the shared years which had brought them there.

I stepped into the bushes where no one could see and wiped away a tear, taking a giant slurp of Diet Coke and wishing it was neat vodka. They were growing up. They weren’t babies any more. It was all going so fast. I realized I was not just sad, but scared: scared of trying not to get lost driving in the dark, scared of all the years ahead of doing this alone: concerts, prize-givings, Christmases, teenagers, problems . . .

‘You can’t even get plastered, can you?’

Mr Wallaker’s shirt looked very white in the moonlight. His profile, half in silhouette, looked almost noble.

‘You all right?’

‘Yes!’ I said indignantly, wiping my fist across my eyes. ‘Why do you keep BURSTING up on me? Why do you keep asking me if I’m all right?’

‘I know when a woman is foundering and pretending not to be.’

He took a step closer. The air was heavy with jasmine, roses.

I breathed unsteadily. It felt as though we were being drawn together by the moon. He reached out, like I was a child, or a Bambi or something, and touched my hair.

‘There aren’t any nits in here, are there?’ he said.