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Sender:
Brian Katzenberg
Subject:
Your screenplay
We have a couple of responses on your script. They are passing. The themes are fascinating but they’re wanting more of a romcom feel. I’ll keep trying.
10.05 a.m. Sent fraudulently cheery email back saying:
Thanks, Brian. Fingers crossed.
But now am slumped in despair. Am failure as screenwriter. Am going to go shopping for underwear.
Noon. Just back from purchasing slip, though am not going to sleep with Roxster. Obviously.
2 p.m. Just back from leg and bikini wax. Though am not going to sleep with him, obviously.
At the beauty salon, Chardonnay said I should have a Brazilian because that is what the young men expect these days and suggested I buy a course of laser treatments.
‘But’, I said, ‘what if Brazilians go out of fashion and the thing is to have a fulsome giant bush like French people again?’
At this, Chardonnay revealed that she had had the whole thing lasered so she was like a baby girl. But, as she says, she worries now, what if she sleeps with someone who doesn’t like the full Brazilian? And admitted that she had toyed with the idea of putting that potion onto it that makes bald men’s hair grow back.
3.15 p.m. In total agony. Opted for a sort of modified Brazilian known as ‘landing strip’. Is no possibility of ever having sex with anyone after this, which is fine as am not going to sleep with him anyway. Obviously.
Friday 1 February 2013
9.30 a.m. Leaped furtively into Boots after school drop-off to purchase condoms, since could not do it with children in tow. (Though, on other hand, presence of children might have suggested condom-purchase was sign of responsible attitude to world overpopulation, rather than loose behaviour.)
Was just standing at till, when had a sense of someone glancing at basket. Looked up to see Mr Wallaker at the next till, now staring implacably ahead, though he had obviously seen the condoms, because of the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Completely brazened it out by also looking straight ahead and saying, ‘Terrible weather for the rugby match today, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, it’s sometimes rather enjoyable in the mud,’ he said, picking up his Boots bag with a tiny snort of amusement. ‘Enjoy your weekend.’
Humph. Bloody Mr Wallaker. Anyway, what was he bloody well doing in the chemist at half past nine on a weekday morning? Shouldn’t he be at school organizing one of his military uprisings? He was probably buying condoms as well. Coloured condoms.
On the way home started to panic about leaving the kids with Daniel and called him up.
‘Jones, Jones, Jones, Jones, Jones. Whatever can you be suggesting? The darlings will be meticulously cared for, almost to the point of overindulgence. I shall take them,’ he said grandly, ‘to the cinema.’
‘What movie?’ I said nervously.
‘Zero Dark Thirty.’
‘WHAT?’
‘That was what we human people laughingly call “a joke”, Jones. I have tickets to Wreck-It Ralph. At least, I shall shortly have tickets to Wreck-It Ralph now that you have reminded me about the whole splendid occasion. And then I shall take them to a fine eating establishment, such as McDonald’s Restaurant, and then I shall read them children’s classics until they fall purringly to sleep. And if you send a hairbrush I shall use it to spank them if they misbehave. So anyway. Who ARE you shagging?’
Just then the text pinged: Roxster.
MOVIE?? I tailspinned. Doesn’t he KNOW I’m doing all this incredibly complicated hoop-jumping-through just so we can sleep together? Slips and bikini waxes and condoms and Daniel and thinking about packing?
Reminding self of Dating Rules, I took some calming breaths and texted back:
And texting continued with an increasingly risqué tone.
