The Digested Twenty-first Century (12 page)

Digested read, digested:
What every woman wants. Obviously.

The lettre came on the wind of Ramadan. ‘Ma chere Vianne, mes sales have been slipping un peu and mes publishers pensent it’s a good idee if I revive mes characters from mon best-vendeur, Chocolat, pour a troisieme time. So get your witchy self along, with your deux dreary filles, back to Lansquenet as vite as possible, much amour, Joanne.’ Ooh la la! Je wondered what Roux would say, but then I remembered he never dired anything anyway. As the great Paulo Coelho once wrote: ‘Silence est souvent more articulate que mots.’ So I packed mes tarot cartes et left Paris avec Anouk et Rosette.

Nothing is the meme in Lansquenet, Pere. A community of
Algerian Muslims have moved dans Les Marauds et ont builde un mosque avec un minaret. Toute la village est en turmoil, Pere, everyone pense qu’il etait moi who burned down the ecole run by the fierce woman who jamais takes offer her niqab. Et maintenant, le vent is bringing back my old adversary, Vianne, who once set up a chocolaterie opposite mon eglise.

The vent was warm and fast, et j’etais back en Lansquenet dans un instant. Quel horreur! The hatred and the mistrust entre les deux communautes! Je hardly recognised mon vieux manoir. Et le pauvre Cure Francis! Toute le village wants to get ridder of him parce qu’il est trop old-fashioned, mais he really a un coeur d’or. Je ne sais pas quoi I am meant to be doing ici, mes les tarots tell me to go and chat to les Muslims.

‘Bonjour, tout le monde. Would you like one of my succulent juicy peches?’ je dis. They respondent: ‘We were told you would bring some chocolat truffles?’ ‘Pas this time, les chocolats were a while en retard.’ ‘Jamais mind, these peches are tres bonnes, so we will tell you tout what is going on with us que we have never bothered to dire anyone else.’ As I listened, le vent grew darker.

Oh Pere, everything est still going seins en haut. Je was walking by the river when I saw a Muslim girl, Alyssa, try to kill herself, so I rescuer her et puis tout le monde pensent que je was essaying to faire elle dans. Et maintenant, Pere, some Muslim bloke a smashed mon visage dans, et all the village aiment le trendy new cure. ‘N’inquietez pas,’ Dieu whispered.

‘Je comprends that it’s not votre faute que you have been dumpe in le milieu d’un second rate piece of politically correct, cosy magical realism.’

Alyssa bit hungrily into my succulent peche. ‘Je sais it’s Ramadan et que j’ai just tried to topper moi-meme, but je cannot resist,’ elle dit. ‘Neither can nous,’ said many autres Muslim women.
‘Beaucoup de nous do not aiment being made to observer le strict Muslim orthodoxies. We want to to be Muslim and French.’

The wind is doing its work, I thought, as I decided to rustle up a few chocolate pralines, apres tout. How I yearned for Roux and quite understood why he had fathered a child by mon old amie Josephine. En effet, je comprended tout. All je needed to faire was to talk to the mysterious Inez, the femme in the niqab.

‘You comprenez rien,’ elle spat. ‘Peut-etre mes tarot cartes on ete upside down.’

Grace pour rien, Pere. J’ai just been coshed over the tete and dumped in the cellar of the gym.

C’est un miracle. Roux a turner up out of le vent. He didn’t shag Josephine so il est tout mienne, not que Roux could ever belonger to anyone parce qu-il est un spirit libre. Et le problem avec les Muslims is sorted, washed clean by the river et le vent. Les Muslim hommes sont behaving themselves again, et everyone feels tres francais.

Oh Pere, c’est bon que je suis still le Cure et que tous les muslims maintenant come to mon eglise. Mais please, Pere, ne letter that Vianne woman near Joanne’s keyboard encore.

Digested read, digested:
Immodium for tout le monde.

Then: Charlie sobbed as she knelt beside her dying horse that had been cruelly knocked down by a speeding 4x4.

Now: ‘Come on, babes,’ said Zoe. ‘My Premier League footballer boyfriend has forgotten my birthday. So he said he would pay for
me to take a friend to Barbados, and you need cheering up to get over your Premier League footballer cheating on you.’

Charlie looked up to see a handsome, well-toned if somewhat diminutive hunk in white Speedos standing next to her sunlounger. Thank God she had had a Brazilian! ‘Hola,’ he drawled, ‘My name is Felipe-Martin di Amis. Would you like to join me on my yacht?’

‘You look shagged out,’ Zoe observed. Charlie smiled. The past few days had been a blur as she had never come so intensely with any other man. ‘I think I’m in love,’ she admitted, ‘though I’m not sure why I told Felipe-Martin I worked in a shop when I’m actually the world’s greatest woman writer who doesn’t actually write her own books.’

Felipe-Martin sobbed. He had never come so intensely with any other woman, and he had believed Charlie was The One but, even though he had told her he was an ageing author rather than a Spanish aristocrat who would be competing in the three-day event at the Olympics, he couldn’t forgive her for telling him she worked in a shop when she was actually the world’s greatest woman writer who didn’t actually write her own books. He would have to end the relationship immediately.

Neither Charlie nor Felipe-Martin had stopped crying for two months since Felipe-Martin had abruptly ended their relationship. She couldn’t believe her eyes when he walked into Chinawhite’s. How fit could a bloke be! Having come more intensely and more frequently than ever before, Felipe-Martin and Charlie lay contentedly in each other’s arms.

‘Do you really think we can be a couple?’ Charlie asked. ‘You are a Spanish aristocrat, while I am only a working-class girl.’

‘Don’t be so silly,’ Felipe-Martin cooed. ‘I have a great understanding of the lower orders myself, and you write about them in a way that is so wholly convincing.’

‘You do know that I don’t actually write my own books, don’t you?’

‘Of course, but somehow that makes you even more authentic.’

‘You say the sweetest things! Now give me your enormous cock again, and I will try not to let the phobia of horses that I have had since my own horse died in my arms get in the way of our relationship.’

Charlie wept bitter tears. She adored Felipe-Martin, but she knew she just wasn’t able to overcome her problem with horses and that it would be unfair on him were she to jeopardise his chances of a gold medal. For his sake, she had to end it by pretending to go out with the footballer again.

‘I’ve never been so miserable in my life,’ cried Charlie and Felipe-Martin.

‘I know you’ve never liked me,’ said Darcy, ‘but I’ve completely changed my personality since I’ve been going out with your jailbird brother. And I think what you need is some therapy to overcome your post-traumatic stress disorder.’

Two months later: Charlie couldn’t believe the therapy had worked so well and as Felipe-Martin cleared the final fence to win a silver medal behind the British rider, she ran into the arena. ‘I love you,’ she cried. ‘And I love you, too,’ Felipe-Martin yelled, ripping off his jodhpurs and forcing himself inside her in front of the Royal Box. The Queen led the crowd’s standing ovation as the couple juddered to the most intense, simultaneous orgasm.

‘I always knew you would win the Nobel Prize for literature,’ gasped Felipe-Martin.

Digested read, digested:
In the name of God ...

Horses were my first love. When I was six I REALLY, REALLY, REALLY wanted one. So my parents got me one. It was my first fashion accessory.

I loved everything about the Spice Girls. Their clothes, their music, their manufactured artificiality. But I especially loved the fact they showed women could become celebrities without having any talent. Here’s a couple of photos of me completely naked.

My favourite book is
Lolita
because I just adore the pubescent teenaged girl look. It rocks. I also like the Edie Sedgwick look. How many drugs can one girl take? Never enough, because taking drugs looks really, really cool. Kate Moss is the hippest woman alive. Fact. Here’s a photo of my best friend, Misty.

Getting dressed in the morning can be the most difficult thing ever. You have to, like, remember where you are, get out of bed and decide what to wear. My tip is to get someone to phone Chanel and get them to send over a selection of their latest collection. That way you can be sure what you’re wearing is clean. You’re welcome. Here’s a rubbish doodle of mine.

When buying new Converse, make sure to get the sales assistant to rub a bit of mud on them. Though obvs only Cotswolds mud. Anything else makes you look common. Isn’t it strange how my hair always looks best the night before I have a hair appointment booked for the following day? Though, on reflection, this could be just because I have a hair appointment every day. Then I expect you do, too, so you know how I feel. Here are some more photos of me looking amazing.

I love men. By men, I mean famous men. Jeremy Irons is dreamy. And I fancy all the Beatles equally, but if I had to choose one of them it would be Mick Jagger. Here’s a photo of him that
I didn’t take. My biggest influence has been Jane Birkin. Probably because she has never done that much either. Here’s a photo of her.

This book is beginning to completely fall apart, isn’t it? But I haven’t really got anything to say. Have you noticed how many pop songs are about break-ups or being generally bummed out? How weird is that? The thing about being heartbroken is that it feels like your heart really has been broken. When I don’t feel I have the answers to all life’s problems, I type my questions into Google. It’s uncanny how often you can find out something useful. When I last typed in ‘Help! I’m really, really unhappy’ the first thing that came up was: ‘Go to the Caribbean and get wasted with your really cool friends for three weeks.’ Here’s a photo of me in sunglasses. CRA-ZEE!

My mum is the coolest mum in the world. Whenever I break up with a boyfriend, she tells me to go out and shag someone else. How cool is that? I don’t seem to have a photo of my mum.

Sometimes my male friends get really depressed. That’s because they don’t have enough leather jackets. You can never have too many leather jackets. I’ve got 25 at least. I really do believe that if everyone in the world had 25 leather jackets, no one would be unhappy again ever. Here’s a photo of me in one of my leather jackets.

Some people become doctors. Others win the Nobel Prize and shit like that. The woman down the road does my nails, though I find it very annoying I can’t update my Twitter status to #having-manicure when I am actually having a manicure – because I can’t use my phone and have my nails done at the same time. Someone should really think of a gadget to get round that. We all have to realise what we are best at and go for it wholeheartedly. I do nothing. Here’s a photo of me doing nothing.

I so love Karl Lagerfeld. He is literally the funniest guy in the entire world. He needs to be looking like the way he does.

Digested read, digested:
Anyone know what Alexa Chung actually does?

18 April 2013

Years since last book:15; Money in the bank: too much to count

9.15am
Funny buzzing in my pocket. Decide to ignore it.
9.20am
Knock on the door. It’s Talitha, telling me she’s been Texting me. Look blank. ‘Your phone,’ she says. So that’s what that BUZZING was! Not sure why I capitalised that. Must have a drink.

9.30am
Talitha says it’s her 60
^th
birthday on May 24
^th
. OMG. That’s the same day as the Roxter’s 30
^th
. ‘You can bring your Toy Boy if you like,’ she says.

9.45am
Agent phones to say my Hedda Gabbler screenplay has got the green light.

9.50am
Having second thoughts about mis-spelling Hedda Gabler. Editor says it will make me look cute and ditzy. ‘Just like the old Bridget!’ I think it just makes me look dim.

23 June 2012

Alcohol units drunk: not enough; pages to fill: too many

8.30am
Late getting Billy to school. Mabel has diarrhoea. HELP!!! I do miss Mark. Shame he had to die, but couldn’t have written another book if he’d been around and we’d been, like, really
happy and smug oldly-weds!! And going through a messy separation would have made Elizabeth Bennet VERY, VERY cross. Hope she approves of his hero’s death.

9.30pm
Miranda comes round and says it’s time I stopped being so boring and had a jolly good shag. Drink three bottles of wine. Miranda brings out this odd metal thing. Says it can send messages to people by something called email. Note to self: must get one. She finds Leatherjacketman on
Slipyoualength.com
.

11.30pm
Try to stick my tongue down Leatherjacketman’s throat. Leatherjacketman makes a run for it. WHOOPS!!

7 December 2012

Weight: miraculously slim; worries about the menopause: none

9.47am
Letter from school. Atticus and Hero have Nits. Really, really scared. What are Nits? Are they like Aids or something?

11.21am
Have discovered Twitter. It’s totes amazeballs. Can’t understand why no one laughs at @JonesyBJ. AAAGH! Have accidentally twittered ‘I really fancy the Roxter’ to everyone!!! Could die with embarrassment. The Roxter twitters back and invites me on a date.

12.57pm
DISASTER!! Weird Mr Wallaker who lives up the street caught me buying condoms from the chemist. Gave me a very funny look. Especially when I asked him which way round they went on!!!

11.58pm
The Roxter is a dream boat. Chiselled jaw, firm six-pack. I think I might have just died myself!!! Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!!!! I heart the Roxter.

14 June 2013

Designer dresses bought: 8; style: overwrought