Bridget Jones's Baby: The Diaries (Bridget Jones 4)

“Was she just too old or did he just not have the soldiers?”

—

Out in the garden, we found a large collection of children, none of whom were climbing trees, playing tag, doing three-legged races, etc., in a childlike manner: all of whom were attached to electronic devices. Magda went storming up to them: “Zac! Off! Now! I said forty-five minutes.”

“But I HAVEN’T FINISHED THIS LEVELLLLLLLLL!”

“Off! Now! All of you!” yelled Magda, drunkenly lunging at the devices.

“It’s just SO FUCKING UNFAIR!”

“I’m going to lose my CROWNS!”

“I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR EFFING CROWNS—GIVE ME THAT THING!”

Unbridled mayhem broke out.

“QUIET!” roared a voice. “Potter, Roebuck, stop! Stand in line!”

The boys, startled, obviously thinking they were back at school, stood to attention.

“Right,” said Mark, striding in front of them as if he was in court. “Disgraceful behaviour. Act like men. Ten times round the lake, all of you. First one back”—he took out his iPhone—“gets Angry Birds for ten minutes. Off you go. Run. FAST.”

The big boys all tore off like racehorses. The little children all burst into tears.

Mark looked nonplussed for a moment. “Right. Jolly good,” he said, and headed back into the hotel.

—

Archie, one of my many godchildren, who is three, was standing with his stomach sticking out looking sad, his lower lip wobbling. I went to him. He threw his arms round my neck and I felt something pulling at my hair.

“My twain,” said Archie.

“Your what??” I said, reaching up to my head. Oh shit! There was a toy train attached to my head, engine still whirring, winding my hair into it.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Archie was crying even more now. “My Thomas de Tank Engine.”

“It’s all right, sweetheart, it’s all right,” I said, trying to turn off the train.

“Audrona!” Magda yelled. “Where in the name of arse are all the fucking nannies?”

“Magda! I’ve got a train stuck to my head!”

—

There was mayhem in the foreground, while the older kids were still haring around the lake like dervishes. Eventually, the nannies appeared and took the little ones off upstairs. The bigger ones returned from the lake, exhausted, but not too exhausted for Mark’s iPhone. It was hard to watch as they clustered around him. Mark Darcy: commanding respect without seeming to try.

—

My memories of the rest of the occasion were somewhat confused owing to a limitless alcohol supply. I think there was line dancing. And, later, a group of us, including Mark, were standing on the terrace, many of us leaning on walls for support.

“Blurry electronics,” muttered Magda. “Blurry Zac and his blurry friends.”

“Never have happened if we’d sent him to public school,” said Jeremy, eyes darting back into the bar where “that woman” cast him a glance.

“Boarding school? He’s seven years old, you bastard,” said Magda.

“Yur. Thassjust cruel. Is blurry barbaric,” I concurred.