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9.50 p.m. Just went up to check on children. Mabel was asleep, hair all over her face as usual, so that her head looked back to front, and clutching Saliva. Saliva is Mabel’s dolly. Billy and I both think she has mixed the name up with Sabrina the Teenage Witch and Sylvanian bunnies, but Mabel considers it to be perfect.
Kissed Billy’s hot little cheek, all snuggled in with Mario, Horsio and Puffles One and Two, at which Mabel raised her head, said, ‘Lovely weather we’re havin’,’ then lay back down again.
I watched them, touching their soft cheeks, listening to their snorty breathing – then, the fatal thought ‘If only . . .’ invaded my head without warning. ‘If only . . .’ Darkness, memories, sorrow rearing up, engulfing me like a tsunami.
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 Im
ages 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?’
