Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

Thursday 4 July 2013

We roared up through the landscaped parkland. We were late, because Billy was trying to map the route on the iPhone and we came off at the wrong junction. Clambered out to the smell of cut grass, the chestnut leaves hanging heavy and green, the light turning golden.

Staggering under the weight of the bassoon case, the rug, my handbag, the picnic basket and a second basket with Diet Cokes and oatmeal cookies that wouldn’t fit in the first basket, Billy and I headed towards the path marked: ‘CONCERT THIS WAY’.

We came out into the open and gasped. It looked like a painting: a gracious, wisteria-clad house, with an old stone terrace and lawns leading down to a lake. The terrace was laid out like a stage, with music stands and a grand piano, and rows of chairs below. Billy held my hand tightly as we stood wondering where to go.

Boys were running around setting up the instruments and music stands, all excited. Then Jeremiah and Bikram shouted, ‘Billy!’ and he looked up hopefully at me. ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘I’ll bring the stuff.’

As I watched him go, I saw the parents laying out their picnics on the lawn next to the lake. No one was alone. They were all in lovely couples which had presumably not been formed on Match.com or PlentyofFish or Twitter, but in the days when people still did meet each other in real life. Started disastrously imagining being there with Mark again, on time because he’d driven the car and operated the satnav, carrying a modest amount of stuff which Mark would have edited before departure, all holding hands, Billy and Mabel between us. And we’d be together, the four of us, on the rug instead of—

‘Did you bring the kitchen table?’

I turned. Mr Wallaker looked unexpectedly glamorous in black suit trousers and a white shirt, slightly unbuttoned. He was looking towards the house, adjusting his cufflinks. ‘Want a hand with all that?’

‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I said as a Tupperware box fell out of the basket, spilling egg sandwiches onto the grass.

‘Leave it,’ he ordered. ‘Give me the bassoon. I’ll get someone to bring the rest down. Got anyone to sit with?’

‘Please don’t speak to me like I’m one of your schoolboys,’ I said. ‘I’m not Bridget No-Mates Darcy and I’m not helpless and I can carry a picnic basket and just because you’ve got everything under control, and all lakes and orchestras, it doesn’t mean—’

There was a crash on the terrace. An entire section of music stands fell over, sending a cello bouncing off the terrace and down the hill, followed by a shrieking bunch of boys.

‘Totally under control,’ he said, giving a little snort of amusement as a double bass and a tuba crashed over next, bringing more music stands with them. ‘Better go. Give me that.’ He took the bassoon and set off towards the house. ‘Oh, and by the way, your dress,’ he called over his shoulder.

‘Yes?’

‘Slightly see-through with the sun behind it.’

I looked down at the dress. Oh, fuck, it was see-through.

‘Good effect,’ he shouted, without looking back.

I stared after him, indignant, confused. He was just . . . just . . . sexist. He was reducing me to a helpless sex object and . . . he was married and . . . just . . . just . . .

I started to pick up the basket when a man in a waiter’s outfit appeared and said, ‘I’ve been asked to carry these down for you, madam,’ and another voice called, ‘Bridget!’ It was Farzia Seth, Bikram’s mum. ‘Come and sit with us!’

It was fine, because the husbands all sat on one side talking about business, so we girls could gossip, occasionally shoving food into overexcited offspring who swooped on us like seagulls.

When it was time for the concert, Nicolette, who was, naturally, Chair of the Concert Committee, started the proceedings with an astonishingly sycophantic speech about Mr Wallaker: ‘Inspiring, invigorating,’ etc., etc.

‘Arousing. Ejaculating. She’s changed her tune a bit since he came up with the stately home,’ muttered Farzia.

‘Is it his stately home?’ I said.

‘I dunno. He fixed it, anyway. And Nicolette’s been completely up his arse ever since. Wonder what the orange wife makes of it.’

As Nicolette finally drew to a close, Mr Wallaker jumped onto the terrace and strode in front of the band, silencing the applause.

‘Thank you,’ he said with a slight smile. ‘I must say I agree with every word. And now – the reason you’re here. I give you – Your. Sensational. Sons.’

And with that he raised his baton, the Big Swing Band burst into an enthusiastic – if slightly out of tune – flourish, and they were off. It was actually completely magical, the light softening, the music ringing out over the grounds.