10 p.m. Just rushed back downstairs to the kitchen. Worse: everything silent, forlorn, empty. ‘If only . . .’ Stoppit. Can’t afford to do this. Switch on the kettle. Don’t go over to the dark side.
10.01 p.m. Doorbell! Thank God! But who can it possibly be at this time of night?
PLENTY OF FUCKWITS
Thursday 18 April 2013 (continued)
10.45 p.m. Was Tom and Jude, both completely plastered, stumbling into the hallway giggling.
‘Can we use your laptop? We were just in Dirty Burger and—’
‘I’s trying to do PlentyofFish on my iPhone and we can’t get it to download a photo from Google so . . .’ Jude clattered down the stairs into the kitchen in her high heels and work suit, while Tom, still dark, buff, handsome and fabulously gay, kissed me extravagantly.
‘Mwah! Bridget! You’ve lost SO much weight!’
(He’s said this every time he’s seen me for the last fifteen years, even when I was nine months pregnant.)
‘’Ere, have you got any wine?’ Jude yelled upstairs from the kitchen.
Turns out Jude – who now practically runs the City, but has continued to translate her love of the financial roller coaster into her love life – was spotted yesterday on an Internet-dating site by her horrible ex: Vile Richard.
‘And yes!’ announced Tom, as we clattered down to join her. ‘Vile Fuckwit Richard, in spite of having messed this fabulous woman around in a fuckwitted, commitment-phobic manner for a HUNDRED years, then married her, then left her ten months later, has had the NERVE to send her an indignant message about being on Plentyof . . . find it, Jude . . . find it . . .’
Jude fiddled confusedly with the phone. ‘I can’t find it. Shit, he’s deleted it. Can you delete your own message once you’ve—’
‘Oh, give it to me, dear. Anyway, the point is, Vile Richard sent her this insulting message, then BLOCKED her so . . .’ Tom started laughing. ‘So . . .’
‘We’re going to make up a person on PlentyofFish,’ finished Jude.
‘PlentyofDicks, more like,’ snorted Tom.
‘PlentyofFuckwits, more like, and then we’re going to use the invented girl to torture him!’ said Jude.
We all squeezed onto the sofa and Jude and Tom started sifting through mugshots of twenty-five-year-old blondes on Google Images and trying to download them onto the dating website, while making up insouciant answers to the profile questions. Wished for a moment Shazzer was here to rant feministically, instead of in Silicon Valley being a dot-com whizz with her unexpectedly-after-years-of-feminism dot-com husband.
‘What kind of books does she like?’ said Tom.
‘Put “Seriously, do you care?”’ said Jude. ‘Men love bitches, remember?’
‘Or “Books? What are they?”’ I suggested, then remembered. ‘Wait! Isn’t this completely against the Dating Rules? Number 4? Use authentic, rational communication?’
‘Yes! It’s FABULOUSLY wrong and unhealthy,’ said Tom, who is actually now quite a senior psychologist, ‘but it doesn’t count with fuckwits.’
Was so relieved to be rescued from the Darkness Tsunami, plunging myself into the creation of Revenge-Girl on PlentyofFish, that I almost forgot my news. ‘Greenlight Productions are going to make my movie!’ I suddenly blurted excitedly.
They stared at me gobsmacked, then interrogation was followed by wild jubilation.
‘You go, girl! Toy boy, screenwriter, you’ve got it all going on now!’ said Jude, as I managed to persuade them out of the door so I could go to sleep.
As Jude stumbled into the street, Tom hesitated, looking at me anxiously. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I think so, it’s just . . .’
‘Be careful, hon,’ he said, suddenly sobering up into professional mode. ‘It’s going to be a lot to take on if you’re having proper meetings and deadlines and stuff.’
‘I know, but you said I should start doing work again and be writing and—’
‘Yes. But you’re going to need some more help with the kids. You’re in a bit of a bubble right now. It’s fantastic, how you’ve turned everything round, but you’re still vulnerable underneath and—’
‘Tom!’ called Jude, who was teetering towards a taxi she’d spotted on the main road.
‘You know where we are if you need us,’ Tom said. ‘Any time, day or night.’
10.50 p.m. Thinking about ‘authentic, rational communication’, have decided to call Roxster and tell him about the nits.
10.51 p.m. Though it is a bit late.
10.52 p.m. Also unannounced switch from texting to telephonic communication with Roxster too dramatic: giving undesirable weight and importance to whole nit issue. Will text instead.
<Roxster?>
Very short wait.
<Yes, Jonesey?>
<You know I said I was working tonight?>
<Yes, Jonesey.>
<There was another reason.>
<I know, Jonesey. You are hopeless at lying even via text. Are you having an affair with a younger man?>
<No, but it’s equally embarrassing. It’s related to your love of the natural world and its insect life.>
<Bedbugs?>
<Nearly . . .>
< *Spontaneous crying, starts hysterically scratching head.* Not . . . nits!!!>
<Can you possibly forgive etc?>
There was a brief pause then texting noise.
<Shall I come round now? Am in Camden.>
Dazzled by Roxster’s cheerful gallantry, I texted back.
<Yes, but don’t you mind about the nits?>
<No. I’ve googled them. They’re allergic to testosterone.>
THE ART OF CONCENTRATION
Friday 19 April 2013
134lbs, calories 3482 (bad), number of times checked for nits on Roxster 3, number of nits found on Roxster 0, number of insects found in Roxster’s food 27, number of insects found in house plague 85 (bad), texts to Roxster 2, texts from Roxster 0, mass emails from class parents 36, minutes spent checking emails 62, minutes spent obsessing about Roxster 360, minutes spent deciding to prepare for film meeting 20, minutes spent preparing for film meeting 0.
10.30 a.m. Right. Am really going to get down to work on presentation of my script, which is an updating of the famous Norwegian tragedy Hedda Gabbler by Anton Chekhov, only set in Queen’s Park. Studied Hedda Gabbler for my English Literature finals at Bangor University, which unfortunately resulted in a Third. But maybe all that is about to be put right!
10.32 a.m. Imperative to concentrate.
11 a.m. Just made coffee and ate remains of children’s breakfast, then started mooning about remembering things from Roxster visit last night: appearance of Roxter at 11.15 p.m., gorgeous in jeans and a dark sweater, eyes sparkling, grinning, holding a Waitrose shepherd’s pie, two cans of baked beans and a Jamaican ginger cake.
Mmmm. The way his face looks when he’s on top of me, the stubble on the beautiful jawline, the slight gap in his front teeth, which you can only see from below, those beefy naked shoulders. Waking up sleepily in the middle of the night to feel Roxster kissing me very gently, my shoulder, my neck, my cheek, my lips, feeling his hard-on pressing against my thigh. Oh God, he is so beautiful and such a great kisser, and such a great . . . Mmm, mmm. Right, must think about the feminist, pre- and anti-feminist, themes in . . . Oh God, though. It is so delicious, it makes me so happy, like I’m in a bubble of happiness. Right, must get on.
11.15 a.m. Suddenly burst out laughing, remembering overblown mid-sex conversation last night.