Hot Mess_Bridget Jones for a new generation

by Lucy Vine

‘Lenny? Is that you? It’s Dad.’

  ‘Yes, it is the daughter whose mobile phone you rang. I see you’re calling on the landline, good for you. Last one left I’d say.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  He sounds amazed. He does use a mobile too, so it’s always entertaining that he’s so confused by their various abilities. But then, he’s confused by most things about the modern world. My dad is the cutest thing. He’s short and round, with huge, bushy grey hair – mostly sprouting from his eyebrows – and looks quite a lot like a middle-aged woman from the back. And, indeed, the front. He gets called ‘madam’ by strangers quite a lot, and last week a man wouldn’t let him into the gents at his local pub. He kept pointing him towards the ladies and they had this awkward stand off until Dad gave up and wandered off.

  I ignore his question.

  ‘How are you, Dad?’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine, love. Just fancied a chat.’

  ‘OK well that’s very nice, but I am at work . . .’

  ‘ARE you? But it’s . . . (I know he’s checking the wall clock) (yes, he’s also the last person in the world to own a wall clock) . . . it’s 11 a.m., Lenny?’

  I’m not totally sure what his point is.

  I clear my throat. ‘Maybe I could call you back at lunchtime?’ I offer.

  ‘That would be nice. But not when I’m watching my soaps, if that’s OK, Lenny.’

  Hey, do you remember when Neighbours and Home and Away were on twice a day? Once at lunchtime, and once around tea? Dad liked watching it with his lunch, so now he records it (ON VHS, I SHIT YOU NOT) and watches it during its old time slot.

  He pauses. ‘Although I could watch them later on if need be?’

  This is extra kind of him. I know he likes his routine.

  ‘No, that’s fine,’ I say and then pause. ‘Dad, are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Yes! Yes. Actually I do quite want to talk to you if possible. It’s something my therapist has encouraged me to speak to you and Jenny about. Don’t worry about ringing, but would you be able to pop round this weekend?’

  If this is coming from his therapist, it could literally be anything – maybe his tomato plant isn’t coming along as well as it usually does.

  ‘Saturday? Of course I will, Dad.’

  Honestly, I go over pretty much every Saturday anyway, he doesn’t have to act like I’ve abandoned him.

  ‘Lovely! Candice says she’s going to make a cake for you. You’ll like it.’

  She recently put tomatoes in a fruitcake – I won’t like it.

  ‘What a treat,’ I say enthusiastically. ‘Right, I better get back to my desk now, Dad. I’ll see you on Saturday, love you.’

  ‘Love you, Lenny.’

  I return to my desk to continue not working.

  3

  6.54 p.m. Friday, 21 February

  Location: Outside my best friend Sophie Ellis’ beautiful red brick house, hidden away from the main road by a row of huge old trees. The house is in the middle of getting a major basement excavation for a ‘games room’, so it’s currently covered in scaffolding, because – dahling – everyone in Surrey has a games room in the basement. But trust me, underneath all the ladders and men showing their bumcracks, it’s a really nice house.

  Sophie opens the door looking pristine. Her long hair is neatly tied to one side and flowing over her shoulder like she’s Princess Jasmine, and her pressed white shirt is actually white. I mean, unlike every white item that I own, which are all more yellow-y grey. On her bottom half are what I think might be chinos but I don’t really know what chinos are. Whatever is happening, it’s working. God, my best friend is fabulous. Sometimes I just show strangers pictures of her so they can marvel at the perfection.

  Sophie swishes her hair and shrieks hello, pulling me in for a hug, and for a second I wish I’d spent some of that half hour train ride applying make-up. To be fair to me, I was pressed into someone’s nipple for most of the trip and I don’t think nipple guy would’ve liked a ring of lipgloss to take home to his wife/husband/interfering mother. I’ve come here straight from work, always thrilled at the prospect of seeing Sophie. And, of course, Thomas, who has just appeared from the living-room, laughing and pushing past Sophie for a bear hug. He picks me up and fireman lifts me inside, as Sophie sings ‘Here comes the bride’, and I joyfully kick my legs and add solemnly, ‘All fat and wide!’

  Thomas White is in love with me. Definitely. Everyone says so. I think it’s mostly a fancying of convenience because we’ve been friends for so long, and everyone else is coupled up, but I will take any crushing I can get. We’ve never talked about the situation, and I think again now, as he puts me down in the kitchen and pats me on the head, that I hope we never do. I adore Thomas, totally and completely, but I’m pretty sure that’s all there is to it. And I don’t really want to be forced to analyse it too closely. Plus, it’s a dumb cliché, but it would ruin the friendship trio, and I’d never forgive myself for that.

  Sophie shouts that she’ll fetch me a drink and orders me to say hello to her daughter, Ciara, who is aged somewhere between a couple of months and a couple of years (I checked my phone calendar – apparently she’s twenty months old, who knew?), and sitting quietly in the living-room. I wave in the direction of Frozen, duty done, and return to the alcohol Sophie’s pouring. We cheers to the prosecco and to being in the suburbs where it’s all anyone drinks, and for the next few minutes we shout over each other in that way old friends do. Complaining about work, scrutinising the weather, and asking after Sophie’s new people – Ciara, and Ciara’s dad, Ryan – who are only really ‘new’ compared to us.

  Sophie and I have been best friends since we were thirteen, when her Russian-Latvian-African heritage proved too much for a group of unevolved fifteen-year-old boys to cope with. I’d seen her around the playground, as one does, but we met properly when I found her crying one day in the biographies section of the school library. So obviously I started crying too.

  ‘Is this about Ryan Atwood?’ I asked her after a few minutes of quiet sobbing, thinking about the dramatic cliff-hanger on the previous night’s episode of The OC.

  Of course it wasn’t about Ryan Atwood, she explained, it was about some first-class playground racism. I don’t remember what I said, but I know I checked she was an OC fan before I offered any comfort re: the racism. We cried a bit more together, and then we decided, there on the floor, that we should be best friends. I promised to protect her from the boys with the help of my recent arrivals – hey, overnight boobs! – and their powers of distraction, and she promised to help me locate Adam Brody in real life and seduce him, again, probably with the help of my overnight boobs. The problem though was my fairly strict one-in-one-out policy when it came to friendship, so Sophie and I went to visit Thomas over by the maths block. Thomas and I had lived next door to each other as kids and been best friends ever since, but he wasn’t really into The OC, which was starting to be a deal-breaker for me. I explained the situation and he was pretty fine about no longer hanging out, but then Sophie suggested maybe we could all be best friends? She said we could be a trio and she had all three costumes for the Powerpuff Girls at home that we could wear to fight crime! But Thomas didn’t like that idea and said friends was enough. And so we became a three, and even though we didn’t have Powerpuff magic, we did have the combined super power of my thirty-two double Ds and Thomas’ popular-boy position as striker on the football team. The racists – along with the rest of the school’s population – pretty much let us be after that.

  Sixteen years later and we’re still mostly only into each other. Sophie’s husband, New Ryan (not Atwood), turned up a few years ago, but he knows he’s not really in the club. He’s really lovely – Thomas and I thoroughly approve of him, or, obviously, there would’ve been no marriage – but he understandably feels left out when we’re around, so he tends to clear out on a Friday night to make way for us. You can’t blame him. Who wouldn’t feel out of the loop l
istening to three adults heading down a school-related rabbit hole, discussing the sexual inappropriateness of Mr Trump the science teacher, who once tried it on with all three of us aged sixteen, when we met him in a pub on a Friday night in town. (Sophie was up for it but we talked her out of it) (he was at least fifty) (and his wife was literally at the bar) (he also had a neck beard) (but, like, no other facial hair?) (It was so weird, like he forgot to shave his neck when doing his face. So weird right?). Ryan also doesn’t get it when we call him New Ryan, and gets even more confused when we explain about Ryan Atwood. He wasn’t really into telly when he was younger, so cultural references are lost on him. He’s dead smart – an accountant for, like, billionaires – but he has these weird holes in his general knowledge. We call it the ‘genius gap’ and whenever he is here, we sit around asking him about stuff he hasn’t discovered about the world we live in. Last week we added Friends and crumpets to the list of basic things he’s missed.

  Sophie’s cooked us a salmon stir-fry and over dinner talk turns, as it generally does, to my life as a single person. Sophie’s already heard the excruciating detail of last week’s non-date, but Thomas listens, fascinated, to my woeful failure. He doesn’t say anything when I tell him about Cassie shouting ‘shithead’ into the voicemail of a man who was trying to have dinner with his grandparents, and he nods solemnly when I tell him how Jen shouted at me for eighteen solid minutes when she eventually got me on the phone. It was a new record and she awarded me a week long ‘sibling penalty’. Jen gives penalties to people who piss her off, it’s her thing. It’s a bit like being in adult detention or getting grounded, but in this case I’m not allowed to call or text her for a week. If I do, that time period will be extended to a month. I finish up explaining and pause, waiting for lovely, lovely Thomas to comfort me, or offer some wise and reassuring words.

  He leans in seriously and, after another beat, says, ‘Can I have the barmaid’s number? She sounds great.’ I growl and flick food at him. Sophie tuts at me like I’m a badly behaved child, but we all know Ciara would never behave so childishly (although, if someone was feeding me meals with an aeroplane-spoon maybe I wouldn’t make such a mess either).

  Sophie pats my hand affectionately. ‘Try not to worry about it, these things happen. At least you never have to see him again. And Jen will forgive you eventually.’ Then Sophie’s face lights up. ‘What about Tinder?!’ she says excitedly, like she is the first person to think of such a thing and not, in fact, the six-hundred-millionth this month.

  I shrug. I tried a bunch of dating apps after my break-up with Tim, and found the process really fun and then horribly, horribly depressing within the space of eight minutes. Or weeks. Not sure. Time blurs inside the Tinder vortex.

  Unfortunately my shrug has been taken as consent (it’s like a drunk campus party in here), and Sophie has already snatched my phone. Thomas shuffles over next to her and the pair of them start giggling about photos and location ranges. Since I clearly don’t have a role to play in any of this, I go stare at Ciara in the other room. Frozen has finished and she’s now giggling over a copy of The Hungry Caterpillar that she can’t even read. I gave her this copy (I’m such a thoughtful godparent). But one day I hope she’ll like it because it was one of my favourites when I was little. I loved the bright colours and the delicious-sounding food. I remember making Mum read it to me over and over again. Ciara giggles again as she sticks her chubby little finger into the holes.

  ‘I think that’s funny too,’ I tell her, crouching down and poking one of the other holes. She looks up at me and beams, reaching out her fat little fists for my face.

  Isn’t it funny when your friends have babies? You have this tight knit group – people you’ve carefully selected over the course of your lifetime, who you like and want to spend your time with – and then one of them has a baby and you no longer have that choice. This tiny new person is an automatic part of your gang and you better hope they’re cool, because even if they’re not, they’re one of you now.

  It’s a good job Ciara is so nice. She fits in very well, partly, I think, because she leaves us to it and Soph doesn’t change her nappies in front of me. I pick her up and sniff her head. People talk about how babies smell, don’t they? Especially if you’re a girl – you’re told that sniffing a baby will make your womb throb and throb, until you can’t help but Google local sperm banks.

  That doesn’t happen to me.

  I put her down, wishing I felt more than I do. I think she’s cute as anything – and I know from having met other babies, that this one is the easiest ever – but she doesn’t make me want one. And I don’t know what that means for me. I feel a flash of frustration with myself. I want to want one, but I just can’t imagine a time when I will ever feel grown-up enough to be a parent.

  When Sophie told me a couple of years ago that she was trying for a baby I was in such awe. The idea that she could see herself as responsible enough to grow another person and put that person out into the world is . . . just unfathomable. Sophie! Sophie, who texts me to boast about her poos. Sophie, who slept with three guys in one twenty-four hour period when she was twenty-two (the year of The Great Slut Race). Sophie, who once sent me a close-up picture of her nipple and tried to convince me it was a UFO. That person is now a mother to a real-life human being. And she doesn’t even seem worried that Ciara could go on to become the next Hitler.

  Ciara puts The Hungry Caterpillar on her head and waves at me, but she’s not fooling anyone. ‘You could be Hitler one day,’ I whisper and she nods agreeably.

  Ciara and I quietly watch two episodes of Peppa Pig (George and Peppa are sooo Ross and Monica) (OK, I have no idea what’s happening on this show) cuddled up on the sofa. She starts to nod off and I wonder if sucking my thumb would be as comforting as she’s making it look, but then Sophie starts shrieking at me to come back. She wants me to look at a man wearing an elephant mask. To clarify; an elephant mask that he is not wearing on his face.

  ‘Is it wrong that I find it a bit attractive?’ she asks, laughing and flicking through the rest of his porn star photos, each featuring the elephant mask in some different, imaginative way.

  Thomas shakes his head, ‘Uh-oh Sophie, is New Ryan not putting out much these days?’

  She tuts again and I take my phone back. It seems that I’ve just matched with Elephant Man, along with an impressive sixty-two other prospective daters.

  ‘We swiped yes to everyone,’ Thomas explains helpfully. ‘I personally swiped at least two hundred men, so don’t be flattered by the number of matches, that’s actually only a small percentage of interest. Especially for a Friday night. It’s peak Tinder time. You already have messages too.’

  Oh hey, look at that, I do. Quite a lot.

  There are nine messages that just say ‘Hey’.

  Three comparatively convoluted, ‘Hey, how are you?’ messages.

  Seven ‘Hey how r u’ messages.

  Two ‘Ur so hot’ messages.

  And one that says ‘Hey babe u around later’, with no punctuation but plenty of emoticons tacked on the end.

  Oh, here’s another one. This charmer’s just sent me a Gif of a dancing monkey. Which cannot be a compliment. Surely it can’t?

  I sigh and flick through the rest of my matches, rolling my eyes at my good friends, who seem so pleased with themselves. Sophie and Thomas have been indiscriminate with their right swipe, but there’s still an awful lot of the same-looking dude in here. Seventy per cent of the men seem to be very angry about posing with tigers, and the other thirty per cent are topless selfies taken in the gym. I give Sophie a withering look and she shouts in my face, ‘Don’t judge a book,’ because apparently she doesn’t understand how Tinder works.

  ‘Is there no one you’re interested in?’ she adds, disappointed. ‘What about the topless guy in the gym?’

  ‘Which one, exactly?’ I say, showing her again the pile of posers.

  Just then a man with murder in his eyes pop
s up. He’s ‘super liked’ me and as I scroll down, I can see that Murder Eyes – AKA ‘Steve’ – has only one interest: Lady Gaga. His description reads, ‘I’ve got a big heart and I’m into tickling people. If you can’t be open minded and open hearted about that then you should just swipe left right now.’ Thomas reaches across me and touches the heart button. We match, and Murdery Steve immediately sends me a message that reads, ‘Your tits are huge.’

  I feel so special.

  Thomas snorts, ‘He had that line ready.’

  That might be as much ‘dating’ as I can handle for now. I click out of the app and put my phone face down on the dining table. ‘Nooo,’ says Sophie, pouting. So I pout back at her.

  ‘Why aren’t we forcing Thomas to do this too?’ I complain and she looks surprised. It hadn’t occurred to her, because of course nobody ever thinks about force feeding online dating to hot, single men.

  ‘I don’t need it,’ Thomas says, giving me a smug grin and a wink. I exaggerate a dry heave and Sophie sighs, picking up my phone again.

  ‘I just really want you to meet someone. I want to double date with you. I want New Ryan to have someone to talk to when we’re all out together. I want to see you settled down and happy.’

  ‘I am happy.’

  She gives me a hard look. She doesn’t believe me.

  ‘Just give it a go for a few weeks?’ she says, offering me back my phone. ‘Go on a few dates, see what happens. Try for me?’

  I laugh. ‘OK fine.’ Anything for an easy life, and if this will stop the nagging – not just from Sophie, but from the whole world – then bring it on. She claps excitedly and disappears to the kitchen to clear up.

  I get it. I get why Sophie wants me to meet someone so badly. She thinks I’m incomplete without a partner, and that a happily ever after means a husband and a baby. Just like she has. She’s been indoctrinated by society’s stupid fantasy message. But it’s more than that. I’m aware that – amazing as her life is – we both have our own version of FOMO. She worries about losing what we had, missing out on our fun nights out, on our old life. She is Sophie the mother and wife now, someone new, and she has to work out who that is and whether I’m coming with her. And I need to work that out too. Am I being left behind? Will I be replaced by these new ‘mum friends’ of hers, who understand parts of her better than I could? I am a tiny bit scared because I don’t know if I necessarily fit into this conventional, suburban thing she has going on with Ciara and New Ryan. And I know it would be easier for her if I met her halfway, with A Someone on my arm. So I will try, I’m willing to try. It can’t be that bad, right? Maybe I’ll even meet someone great.