Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

6 p.m. Managed to get everyone and everything into car on time, drive to sports ground, and then get everybody and everything out of the car by pretending was soldier in a war combined with the Dalai Lama. Billy and Mabel had forgotten all about the Father’s Day trauma and were wildly jolly, running off immediately to charge around with their friends, mercifully forgetting all about their melting-down mother as well.

Unfortunately, however, in the midst of laying out picnic rugs and chopped vegetables, said melting-down mother was suddenly overcome with un-Zen-like rage at Roxster for putting her into such a meltdown and sent off a blistering texting rant which went as follows:

Broke off briefly to graciously pour out some of my giant bottle of Pimm’s for Farzia and the other mothers.

Saffron who will probably not be able to afford on-tap nannies you’re going to get a bit of a shock. And if receiving a texting rant makes you feel bad, then good. Because so do I, and I’m at a FARTING SPORTS DAY!>

Then turned back to the group, commenting flatteringly upon the delicious picnic, before returning to my text with an apologetic smile suggesting that I was a very busy and important businesswoman and not just texting farts to a toy boy who had dumped me unequivocally for being too old.

The phone vibrated.

Roxster:

Me:

Quickly checked the children – Billy was running round maniacally with a group of boys and Mabel and another small girl were cheerfully saying obscurely mean things to each other – then returned to my texting exchange.

Roxster:

Me:

Roxster:

Me:

‘Enjoying supporting the sporting activities?’

It was Mr Wallaker, positively sneering down at my iPhone. Was just trying to get up, which, because I’d been sitting on my knees for so long, involved crashing onto all fours, when the starter pistol went off for the first race.

In that split second, I saw Mr Wallaker freeze, and his hand whip to his hip as if for a gun. I could see the powerful body tensed beneath his sports shirt, the muscle in his cheek working, eyes casing the playing fields. As the egg-and-spoon racers wobbled off the starting blocks, he blinked, as if remembering himself, then glanced round sheepishly to see if anyone had noticed.

‘Everything all right?’ I said, raising one eyebrow in an attempt to mimic his usual supercilious manner, which may not have been entirely successful, owing to my still being on all fours.

‘Absolutely,’ he said, his cool blue eyes levelly meeting mine. ‘Just a slight issue I have with . . . spoons.’

Then he turned and jogged off towards the egg-and-spoon finishing line. I stared after him. What was that about? Was he delusional, dissatisfied with his mundane life and filled with Bond fantasies? Or was he the sort of person who dresses up as Oliver Cromwell and fights pretend battles at the weekends?

As the sporting events got under way, I put the iPhone away and started to focus. ‘Come on, Mabel,’ I said, ‘it’s Billy’s long jump.’

As they measured Billy’s jump a cheer went up and he leaped into the air.

‘I told you, dammit!’ said Mabel.

‘What?’ I said.

‘Dey do have tape measuring in the Kwintoflon.’

‘Yes, it is an increasingly popular athletic category.’

It was Mr Wallaker and, teetering behind him, a strange, out-of-place woman I hadn’t seen before.

‘Could I possibly have a drop of that Pimm’s?’ She was wearing a white, expensive-looking crocheted dress and high-heeled mules with gold things

on. Her face had that slightly peculiar look which people have when they’ve had work done which obviously seems fine when they’re staring at the mirror but looks weird as soon as they move their face.

‘Pimm’s?’ she said to Mr Wallaker. ‘Dear?’

‘DEAR’? Could this possibly be Mr Wallaker’s WIFE? How had that one happened?

Mr Wallaker looked uncharacteristically discombobulated. ‘Bridget, this is . . . this is Sarah. Don’t worry, I’ll do the Pimm’s, you go to Billy,’ he said quietly.

‘Come on, Mabel,’ I said, as Billy galloped over like an exuberant puppy, bits of shirt and sash flying in the wind, and buried his head in my dress.

As we started packing up the things before the prize-giving, the weird, drunk Mr-Wallaker-wife teetered over to us again.

‘Could I have some more Pimm’s?’ she slurred. I began to think I quite liked her really. It’s always so nice to meet someone more badly behaved than oneself.

Then she said, ‘Thanks you,’ peering at me with her surprised eyes. ‘Not often I meet someone your age who’s still got a real face.’