Mad About the Boy (Bridget Jones 3)

‘Well done, Billy.’ It was Mr Wallaker. ‘You kept trying and you made it. Good effort.’

‘Um!’ I said, thinking maybe this was the moment when I could apologize and explain, but he just walked off, leaving me with only his pert bum to look at.

I just ate two Big Macs with fries, a double chocolate shake and a sugar doughnut.

When he’s hot, he’s hot; when he’s not, he’s not. But at least there is always food.

PARENTS’ EVENING

Tuesday 5 November 2013

9 p.m. Hmmm. Maybe he isn’t not hot. I mean, not completely not hot. Arrived at parents’ evening, admittedly a tad late, to find most of the parents preparing to leave and Billy’s form teacher, Mr Pitlochry-Howard, looking at his watch.

Mr Wallaker strode in with an armful of reports. ‘Ah, Mrs Darcy,’ he said. ‘Decided to come along after all?’

‘I have been. At a meeting,’ I said hoity-toitily (even though, unaccountably, as yet, no one has asked for a meeting about Time Stand Still Here, my updating of To the Lighthouse) and settled myself with an ingratiating smile in front of Mr Pitlochry-Howard.

‘How IS Billy?’ said Mr Pitlochry-Howard kindly. Always feel uncomfortable when people say this. Sometimes it’s nice if you think that they really care, but I paranoically imagined he meant there was something wrong with Billy.

‘He’s fine,’ I said, bristling. ‘How is he, you know, at school?’

‘He seems very happy.’

‘Is he all right with the other boys?’ I said anxiously.

‘Yes, yes, popular with the boys, very cheerful. Gets a bit giggly in the class sometimes.’

‘Right, right,’ I said, suddenly remembering Mum getting a letter from my headmistress suggesting that I had some sort of pathological giggling problem. Fortunately Dad went in and gave the teacher an earful, but maybe it was a genetic disorder.

‘I don’t think we need to worry too much about giggling,’ said Mr Wallaker. ‘What was the issue you had with the English?’

‘Well, the spellings . . .’ Mr Pitlochry-Howard began.

‘Still?’ said Mr Wallaker.

‘Ah, well, you see,’ I said, springing to Billy’s defence. ‘He’s only little. And also – as a writer I believe language is a constantly evolving, fluctuating thing, and actually communicating what you want to say is more important than spelling and punctuating it.’ I paused for a moment, remembering Imogen at Greenlight accusing me of just putting strange dots and marks in here and there where I thought they looked nice.

‘I mean, look at “realize”,’ I went on. ‘It used to be spelt with a z and now it’s Americanized – that’s with an “s” by the way. And I notice you’re spelling it on the tests with an “s” because computers do now!’ I finished triumphantly.

‘Yes, marvelous, with a single “l”,’ said Mr Wallaker. ‘But, at this present moment in time, Billy needs to pass his spelling tests or he’ll feel like a berk. So could you perhaps practise when you two are running up the hill in the mornings just after the bell has rung?’

‘OK,’ I said, looking at him under lowered brows. ‘How is his actual writing? I mean, creatively?’

‘Well,’ said Mr Pitlochry-Howard, rustling through his papers. ‘Ah, yes. We asked them to write about something strange.’

‘Let me see,’ said Mr Wallaker, putting on his glasses. Oh God. It would be so great if we could both put on our reading glasses on a date without feeling embarrassed.

‘Something strange, you say?’ He cleared his throat.

I sank into the chair, dismayed. Was this how my children saw me?

Mr Pitlochry-Howard was staring down at his papers, red-faced.

‘Well!’ said Mr Wallaker. ‘As you say, it communicates what it’s trying to communicate very well. A very vivid picture of . . . something strange.’

I met his gaze levelly. It was all right for him, wasn’t it? He was trained in giving orders and had packed his boys off to boarding school and could use the holidays to casually perfect their incredible music and sporting skills while adjusting their spelling of ‘inauspicious’.

‘How about the rest of it?’ he said.