Mad About the Boy (Bridget Jones 3)

‘This is Miranda,’ said Mr Wallaker stiffly.

Miranda was beautiful and young, with long, shiny black hair, topped with a trendy woollen cap. She had long thin legs in jeans and . . . and studded ankle boots.

‘Miranda, this is Mrs Darcy, one of our school mothers.’

‘Bridget!’ said a voice. The hairdresser who had just done my roots was hurrying up the street. ‘You left your wallet in the salon. How’s the colour? No more shades of grey for you for Christmas!’

‘It is very nice, thank you. Happy Christmas,’ I said like a traumatized automaton granny. ‘Happy Christmas, Mr Wallaker. Happy Christmas, Miranda,’ I said, although it was not Christmas.

They looked at me oddly as I walked shakily away.

9.15 p.m. The children are asleep and I am very old and lonely. No one will ever fancy me again ever, ever, ever. Mr Wallaker is at this moment shagging Miranda. Everybody’s life is perfect except mine.

THE SOUND OF SHELLS CRACKING

Monday 25 November 2013

136lb, number of pounds heavier than Miranda 46.

9.15 a.m. Right. I am used to this now. I know what to do. We do not wallow. We do not descend into feelings of being crap with men. We do not think everyone else’s life is perfect except ours, except bloody Miranda’s. We concentrate on our inner great tree, and we go to yoga.

1 p.m. Blimey. Started off in yoga, but realized had drunk too much Diet Coke again. Suffice it to say, it didn’t go very well during Pigeon Pose.

Went instead into the meditation class next door, which you could argue was a bit of a waste of money because it had cost fifteen quid and all we did was sit cross-legged trying to keep our minds blank. Found self looking round the room, thinking about Mr Wallaker and Miranda, then nearly farted in shock.

I didn’t recognize him at first but there, sitting in loose-fitting grey clothes on a purple mat, eyes closed, palms raised on his knees, was none other than George from Greenlight. At least, I was pretty sure it was him, but it was hard to tell. Then I saw the big glasses and iPhone next to the purple mat and I knew it was definitely George.

On the way out, I wasn’t sure whether to say hello or not, but then I thought we had been communing on some sort of level, if subliminal, for the last hour, so I said, ‘George?’

&nbs

p; He put the glasses on and looked at me, suspiciously, as though I was going to force a spec script on him right there.

‘It’s me!’ I said. ‘Remember? The Leaves in His Hair?’

‘What? Oh, right. Hey.’

‘I didn’t know you were into meditation.’

‘Yeah. I’m done with the movie business. It’s all studio movies. No respect for art. Meaningless. Empty. Nest of vipers. I was falling apart. Just about to . . . Hang on.’ George checked his iPhone. ‘Sorry. Just about to get on a plane. I’m going to an ashram for three months in Lahore. Great to catch up.’

‘Excuse me,’ I ventured.

He turned, looking impatient.

‘Are you sure the ashram isn’t in Le Touquet?’

He laughed then, probably only just remembering who I was, and we had a rather alarming hug, and he said, ‘Namaste,’ in a deep movie-producer voice with an ironic expression, then rushed off again, still checking his iPhone. And I realized, in spite of everything, I was actually quite fond of George from Greenlight.

Tuesday 26 November 2013

135lb, number of pounds heavier than Miranda 45 (better), calories 4826, ham-and-cheese paninis 2, pizzas 1.5, tubs of Häagen-Dazs frozen yogurt 2, alcohol units 6 (very bad behaviour).

9 a.m. Just dropped off kids. Feel fat. Maybe will go and get ham-and-cheese panini.

10.30 a.m. Suddenly realized as was standing in the queue that Perfect Nicolette was there, waiting for her hot beverage. She was wearing a white faux-fur jacket and sunglasses and carrying an enormous handbag. She looked like Kate Moss arriving at a black-tie event, only it was nine in the morning. Was tempted to bolt, but had been waiting ages, so, when Nicolette eventually turned and spotted me, I said brightly, ‘Hello!’

Instead of the frosty greeting I was expecting, Nicolette just stared at me, holding a paper cup in one hand.