Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you tip a little bit more on Mummy’s coat, just for Christmas?’

He stood up, and pretended to lurch towards me with the mulled wines.

‘Merry Christmas,’ he said. We touched paper cups and our eyes met again and, even with the mess of kids and parents thronging around us, somehow neither of us could look away.

‘Mummy!’ It was Billy. ‘Mummy, did you see me?’

‘’Tis de season to hate Billy!’ sang Mabel.

‘Mabel,’ said Mr Wallaker. ‘Stop it.’ Which she did. ‘Of course she saw you, Billy, she was waving at you, as she was specifically instructed not to. Here’s your hot chocolate, Billster.’ He put his hand on Billy’s shoulder. ‘You were great.’

As Billy grinned the fantastic ear-to-ear, sparkle-eyed grin, the old grin, I caught Mr Wallaker’s look, both of us remembering how close Billy had come to— ‘Mummy!’ Billy interrupted. ‘What did you do to your coat? Oh, look, there’s Bikram! Did you bring my bag? Can I go?’

‘Me too, me too!’ said Mabel.

‘Where?’ said Mr Wallaker.

‘Sleepover!’ said Billy.

‘I’m going too!’ said Mabel proudly. ‘Havin’ a sleepover. Wid Cosmata!’

‘Well, that sounds like fun,’ said Mr Wallaker. ‘And is Mummy having a sleepover too?’

‘No,’ said Mabel. ‘She’th all on her own.’

‘As usual,’ said Billy.

‘Interesting.’

‘Mr Wallaker.’ It was Valerie, the school secretary. ‘There’s a bassoon left in the church. What do we do? We can’t leave it in the church and it’s absolutlely enorm—’

‘Oh God. I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s Billy’s. I’ll go and get it.’

‘I’ll get it,’ said Mr Wallaker. ‘Back in a mo.’

‘No! It’s OK! I’ll—’

Mr Wallaker put his hand firmly on my arm. ‘I’ll get it.’

Blinking, head swirling through confused thoughts and emotions, I watched him go off for the bassoon. I packed Mabel and Billy off with their bags and stood by the brazier watching them go with Bikram and Cosmata and their mums and dads. After a few minutes all the other families started leaving too, and I was beginning to feel a bit of a fool.

Maybe Mr Wallaker didn’t mean he was coming back at all. I couldn’t see him anywhere. I mean, maybe ‘Back in a mo’ was just the sort of thing people say when they’re moving around at a social occasion, though he was going for the bassoon, but maybe he’d locked it in a cupboard ready for the next lesson and gone to meet Miranda. And maybe he just gave me the nice look in church because he was sorry for me because I was blubbing during ‘Once in Royal David’s City’. And he only brought the hot chocolate because I was a tragic widow with tragic fatherless children and . . .

I downed a last mouthful of the mulled wine and, chucking my cup in the bin, splattering my coat with red wine to go with the chocolate, set off towards the square, following the last stragglers.

‘Hang on!’

He was striding towards me, holding the enormous bassoon. The stragglers turned to look. ‘It’s all right! I’m taking her carol singing,’ he said, then murmuring as he reached my side, ‘Shall we hit the pub?’

The pub was all cosy, old and Christmassy with flagstone floors, crackling fires and ancient beams decked with boughs of holly: though also full of parents looking at us with intense interest. Mr Wallaker cheerfully ignored the stares, found a booth at the back where no one could see, pulled out my chair for me, put the bassoon next to my chair, saying, ‘Try not to lose it,’ and went to get us drinks.

‘So,’ he said, sitting down opposite, placing the glasses in front of us.

‘Mr Wallaker!’ said one of the Year 6 mothers, peering round the booth. ‘I just wanted to say it was the most marvellous—’

‘Thank you, Mrs Pavlichko,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I deeply appreciate your appreciation. I hope you have a wonderful Christmas, truly. Goodbye.’ And she scuttled off, politely dismissed.

‘So,’ he said, sitting down again.

‘So,’ I said. ‘I just want to say thank you again for—’

‘So what’s with your toy boy? The one I saw you with on the Heath?’

‘So what’s with Miranda?’ I said, smoothly ignoring his impertinence.

‘Miranda? MIRANDA?’ He looked at me incredulously. ‘Bridget, she’s TWENTY-TWO! She’s my brother’s stepdaughter.’

I looked down, blinking rapidly, trying to take it all in. ‘So you’re going out with your step-niece?’

‘No! She bumped into me when she was shoe-shopping. You’re the one who’s engaged to be married to a child.’

‘I’m not!’

‘You are!’ he said, laughing.

‘I’m not!’

‘So stop squabbling, and dish.’

I told him the whole story about Roxster. Well, not the whole, whole story: edited highlights.

‘How old was he exactly?’

‘Twenty-nine. Well, no, he was thirty by the time—’

‘Oh, well, in that case –’ his eyes were crinkling at the corners – ‘he’s practically a sugar daddy.’

‘So you’ve been single all this time?’

‘Well, I’m not saying I’ve been living the life of a monk . . .’

He swirled the Scotch around in his glass. Oh God, those eyes.

‘But the thing is, you see –’ he leaned forward confidentially – ‘you can’t go out with someone else, can you? When you’re in lo—’