Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

Feel like putting hands over ears saying, ‘Lalalala, don’t care. You only live once. We’re going on a mini-break! Hurrah!’

Thursday 6 June 2013

9.30 a.m. Got back from school run. Turned on email to deal with the school Sports Day picnic and detonated:

Sender:

Brian Katzenberg

Subject:

Forwarded email

Yes, you are fired. But they still want you in the mix. They’re going to set up a meeting with the new writer. The movie business!

A new writer? Already? How could they possibly have found one so quickly?

Phone quacked.

Roxster:

Jerked into action in a frenzy of googling country pubs on LateRooms.com to find absolutely everything was booked up.

We are like Mary and Joseph with no room at the Inn except that rather than about to give birth to the Son of God am about to be broken up with by Joseph.

10 a.m. Just texted Tom who texted back five minutes later.

10.05 a.m. Oh. Just checked the treehouse. It’s £875 a night.

10.15 a.m. Yayy! Have found a room in a pub.

10.20 a.m. Oh, just called them. It’s the Bridal Suite. Texted Roxster.

<*Sighs* Yes, Roxster, they do.>

10.45 a.m. No reply. Oh God. Maybe he thinks I’m serious?

I braved.

Then decided to give him a way out in case he really just wanted a relaxing setting for the full break-up.

Held my breath . . .

<*Googling menu* Of course you are, my little chicken and mushroom puffball.>

11 a.m. Feeling suddenly light and giddy, I booked the room and texted:

Long pause, then . . .

MINI-BREAK OR BREAK-UP?

Saturday 8 June 2013

Texting has been more high-spirited than ever with Roxby McDuff, full of plans for our trip, so maybe it was just a wobble brought on by the Ellen Boschup toy-boy article, and he is in the Present Moment and everything is all right.

But anyway had better finish packing or will miss train. Ooh, text from Roxster.

Was he going to cancel?

I texted nervously.

<*On one knee* Will you be my wife?>

Stared at the phone. What was going on?

Thought carefully, then, suspecting a trick, I texted:

Sunday 9 June 2013

Mini-breaks 1, shags 7, alcohol units 17, calories 15,892, weight 193lb (including, feels like, 60lb small animal).

Mini-break was heaven. It was ambrosia. We carried on the marriage joke all weekend. It was balmy, sunny weather and it was blissful being away from the noise and to-do lists. Roxster was at his most cheerful and merry. The pub was tiny, in a hidden valley by a little river. The Bridal Suite was in a separate barn, painted white, with a sloping ceiling and rough wooden beams, and windows on two sides, one side looking straight onto the river and, beyond, a water meadow. Tried to block out memories of Bridal Suite for my real wedding with Mark. But started laughing when Roxster carried me over the threshold, pretending to stagger under the weight, and flung me on the bed.

The windows were open and all you could hear was the river, birds, and sheep in the distance. We had sleepy dreamy sex, then slept for a while. Then we walked along the river and found a little ancient chapel, where we pretended to get married and that the cows were our wedding guests. Eventually we came to another pub, and drank too much beer to quench our thirst and topped it with wine. There was no talk about breaking up. I did tell Roxster about being sacked from Leaves and he was so sweet and said they were all mad, and didn’t appreciate my rare genius, and he was going to fight them with his beefy arms. Then we ate a meal so gigantic that afterwards I could hardly move. I had this huge . . . thing in my stomach . . . it felt like being pregnant with a strange creature with very protuberant arms and legs.

We went outside to try and walk it off. There was a full moon, and I suddenly thought about Mabel: ‘There’th the moon. It followth me.’ I thought about Mark, and all the times the moon had followed us, and all the years when I was sure, sure that he would always be there and that there wasn’t heartbreak ahead, just years of being together, stretching before us.

‘You all right, baby?’ said Roxster.

‘I feel like I’ve eaten a Bambi,’ I laughed, to cover the moment.

‘I feel like I want to eat you,’ said Roxster. He put his arm round my shoulders and everything felt fine again. We walked along the river a bit, then got into a bog, and decided it was too dark and too far and went back to the pub and rang for a taxi.