Mad About the Boy (Bridget Jones 3)

Roxby McDuff: a gentleman to the last.

GIVING IN

Saturday 13 July 2013 (continued)

When I got home, there was an hour before Mum was due back with the kids. I sat down, finally, in an armchair, with a cup of tea. And I just gave in and accepted it all. It was really over with sweet, lovely Roxster. And I was sad, but so it was. And I couldn’t hold all these balls in the air. I couldn’t rewrite a film about an updated Hedda Gabler on a yacht in Hawaii, moved to Stockholm by six different people. I couldn’t do Internet dating with weird strangers. I couldn’t keep this mad matrix of schedules and Zombie Apocalypses and Build-a-Bear parties in my head, and deal with nearly-confusingly-snogging married teachers at the school, and wear Grazia-style clothes and try to have a boyfriend and do a job, and be a mother. I tried to stop myself thinking I should do anything. Check my emails. Go to Zumba. Get on OkCupid. Read the latest insane rewrite of The Leaves on His Yacht.

I just sat there and thought, ‘This will just have to do. Me. The kids. Just let the days flow by.’ I didn’t feel sad, really. I couldn’t remember the feeling of not having to do the next thing. Not having to squeeze the last second out of the day. Or find out why the fridge was making that noise.

And I’d love to say something marvellous came out of it. But it didn’t, really. My bum probably got fatter or something. But I sensed a sort of mental clarity emerging. A sense that what I needed to do now was find some peace.

‘I need to be gentle now,’ I thought, blinking rapidly. ‘It’s a gentle time. Never mind anyone else, we’ll just be us – me, Billy and Mabel. Just feel the wind in our hair, and the rain on our faces. Just enjoy them growing up. Don’t miss it. They’ll be gone soon.’

I stared dramatically ahead, thinking, ‘I am brave, though I am alone,’ then realized that the phone was quacking somewhere. Where was it?

Eventually located phone in the downstairs toilet and jumped in alarm, seeing a string of texts from Chloe.

Just then the doorbell rang. Opened it to find Mum with Billy and Mabel – both crying, hot, sweaty and smeared with cake – on the doorstep.

Got everyone downstairs, telly on, computer on, Mum with a cup of tea when doorbell rang again.

Was Chloe, uncharacteristically in tears.

‘Chloe, I’m so sorry!’ I said. ‘I just turned the phone off for a little bit to just . . . get over something and missed all your—’

‘It’s not that!’ she wailed. ‘It’s Graham.’

It turned out Chloe and Graham had taken out a rowing boat on the Serpentine, and Chloe had prepared an immaculate picnic hamper with cutlery and china, at which Graham said, ‘I have something to say.’

Chloe, of course, thought Graham was going to ask her to marry him. And then he announced that he had met somebody in Houston on YoungFreeAndSingle.com and was getting transferred to Texas to go and live with her.

‘He said I was too perfect,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m not perfect. I just feel I have to pretend to be perfect. And you don’t like me either because you think I’m too perfect too.’

‘Oh, Chloe. I don’t! You’re not perfect!’ I said, throwing my arms around her.

‘Aren’t I?’ she said, looking at me hopefully.

‘No, yes,’ I gabbled. ‘I mean, not perfect, though you are great. And’ – I suddenly felt emotional – ‘I know middle-class working mothers always say this but I genuinely don’t know what I would do without you helping me, and being so perfe— I mean, so great. What I mean is, it’s just a relief that everything in your life isn’t completely perfect, though, obviously, I’m very sorry that that FUCKWIT Graham was so FUCKWITTED as to—’

‘But I thought you’d only like me if I was perfect.’

‘No, I was FRIGHTENED of you because you were perfect, because it made me feel so not perfect.’

‘But I always think YOU’RE perfect!’

‘Mummy, can we go up to our room? Granny’s being weird,’ said Billy, appearing up the stairs.

‘Granny’th got a tail,’ said Mabel.

‘Billy, Mabel!’ said Chloe delightedly. ‘Can I take them upstairs?’

‘Great, I’ll go and see to Granny. Check if she’s grown a tail,’ I said, looking sternly at Mabel and adding reassuringly to Chloe: ‘You’re not perfect.’

‘Aren’t I? You really mean it?’

‘No, really, definitely not perfect at all.’

‘Oh, thank you!’ she said. ‘Neither are you!’ and headed up the stairs with the children, looking and being absolutely perfect.