Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

‘Something to drink?’ said Imogen, pointing to a low sideboard sporting an array of designer waters, Diet Cokes, coffee, chocolate biscuits, Nutribars, oatmeal biscuits, a bowl of fruit and chocolate Celebrations, and, oddly for that time of day, croissants.

Just as I was helping myself to coffee and a croissant, to create a pleasing air of a Power Breakfast, the door burst open and a tall, imposing man in large black glasses and immaculately ironed shirt swept in, looking very busy and important.

‘Sorry,’ he said in a deep voice without looking at anyone. ‘Conference call. OK. Where are we?’

‘Bridget, this is George, the head of Greenlight Productions,’ said Imogen, just as my handbag started making a loud quacking noise. Oh God. Billy had obviously done something with the text alert.

‘Sorry,’ I laughed gaily, ‘I’ll turn that off,’ and started grappling amongst the bits of cheese in my bag to try and find the phone. The thing is, though, the quacking wasn’t a text alert, it was some sort of alarm so it kept on going and my bag was so full of rubbish I couldn’t find the phone. Everyone stared.

‘So . . .’ said George, gesturing at the chair beside him, as I managed to pull out the phone, wipe off a bit of squashed banana and turn it off. ‘So . . . we like your script.’

‘Oh, that’s great,’ I said, furtively placing the phone on ‘vibrate’ and on my knee in case Roxster, I mean Chloe or the school, texted.

‘There are some really lovely things in there,’ said Imogen.

‘Thank you!’ I beamed. ‘I’ve made some notes for our discussion and—’

The phone vibrated. Was Chloe.

Mind reeled over Latin-verb-declension-like morass of children’s names – Cosmo, Cosmas, Cosmata, Theo, Thea, Thelonius, Atticarse – and hideous pickup/sick dilemma, wondering what Power Mothers did in similar situations.

‘Basically we think the whole tone and the updating of the Hedda story is great,’ Imogen was saying.

‘The Hedda character,’ added George tersely. Imogen coloured slightly, seeming to take this as some kind of rebuke, then continued: ‘We think the idea of a woman dissatisfied with her lot, and torn between a sensible-choice husband and a wildly creative—’

‘Exactly, exactly,’ I said as the phone vibrated again. ‘I mean, even though it was a long time ago, women are still making these decisions. And I think Queen’s Park has exactly the sort of—’

Glanced furtively at the text. Roxster!

‘Right, right, what we’re thinking is – we set it in Hawaii,’ George interrupted.

‘HAWAII?’ I said.

‘Yes.’

Realizing this might be a crucial juncture, I gathered my courage, and added: ‘Although, it is meant to be more Norwegian. So like, in November, all dark and miserable, in a dark, depressing house in Queen’s Park.’

‘It could be Kauai,’ said Imogen encouragingly. ‘It rains all the time there.’

‘So instead of being in, like, a dark depressing house it’s—’

‘On a yacht!’ said Imogen. ‘We want to bring in a sort of 60s/70s glamorous feel.’

‘Like The Pink Panther,’ interjected Damian.

‘You mean it’s going to be a cartoon?’ I said, furtively texting under the desk.

‘No, no, you know, like the original Pink Panther with David Niven and Peter Sellers,’ said Imogen.

‘Wasn’t that set in Paris and Gstaad?’

‘Well, yes, but it’s the feel we’re after. The mood,’ said Imogen.

‘A yacht in Hawaii with a Paris/Gstaad sort of feel?’ I said.

‘Where it’s raining,’ said Imogen.

‘Dark, dark, cloudy skies,’ added Damian.

I slumped. The whole thing was meant to be about everything being disappointing and shabby. But, importantly, as Brian the Agent says, if you’re a screenwriter you don’t want to be sort of a nuisance.

The phone vibrated. Roxster.

‘So . . .’ said George. ‘Hedda is Kate Hudson.’

‘Right, right.’ I nodded, writing ‘Kate Hudson’ in my iPhone notes and quickly texting while trying not to think about Roxster’s head up my dress.

‘The boring husband is Leonardo DiCaprio and then the alcoholic ex is . . .?’

‘Heath Ledger,’ Damian said quickly.

‘But he’s dead,’ said Imogen just as Roxster texted:

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah,’ Damian was saying. ‘Not Heath Ledger but someone like Heath Ledger only . . .’

‘Not dead?’ said Imogen, staring at Damian coldly. ‘Colin Farrell?’

‘Yup,’ said George. ‘I can see that. I can see Colin Farrell. If he’s on the straight and narrow, which I think he is. So what about the other girl?’

‘The friend – the one Hedda Gabbler was at school with?’ said Imogen. The phone vibrated.

‘Alicia Silverstone,’ said Damian. ‘It should be like Clueless.’

‘Nope,’ said George.

‘No,’ Damian disagreed with himself.

‘You know what?’ George was looking thoughtful. ‘Hedda could be more of a Cameron Diaz. What about Bradley Cooper for boring husband?’

‘Mmm! Yes!’ I said. ‘But isn’t Bradley Cooper quite sex—’

‘Jude Law in Anna Karenina,’ concurred Imogen, with a knowing smile. ‘Or cast the whole piece older and have George Clooney playing against type?’