Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

‘It was a joke,’ I said, trying to open the chicken pie with my teeth. ‘I can’t concentrate on what you’re saying, because you’re always on a plane or some other mode of transport. Can’t we just talk about things calmly for TWO minutes with you in one place?’ I said, tucking the phone under my chin, opening the oven door with one hand and shoving the pie in with the other. ‘I can’t WORK with you rushing about like this! I need to concentrate.’

George suddenly switched into a purring, sensual, soothing voice I hadn’t heard before.

‘OK, OK. We think you’re a genius. Once this trip is over I’m going to be in the office all the time, all right? You just need to put back the special Hedda voice we love so much into all the Hedda lines when Saffron’s finished with them. And you’ll have my undivided, calm attention.’

‘OK, yes,’ I said frantically, wondering if I could glaze the pie before I dried my hair.

8.40 p.m. Phew. Thank goodness Roxster is a bit late. Everything is fine. Hair is normal. Chicken pie is not only in oven but GLAZED with beaten egg to give pleasing air of some form of cooking. Downstairs is looking all right, and lit by candles, and think silk shirt is OK and not too slutty as we have been sleeping together for months, and also everything else is either too uncomfortable or in the wash. Oh God, I’m so tired. Think will just have little sleep on sofa for a few minutes.

9.15 p.m. Gaaah! Is 9.15 and Roxster is not here. Have I slept through the doorbell?

Just texted Roxster.

Stared at the text, mind reeling. A curry? Buses slow? Colleagues? Roxster doesn’t say ‘colleagues’. And what about the chicken pie? What was going on?

9.45 p.m. Roxster is still not here. Texted:

Roxster:

FARTING SPORTS DAY

Thursday 13 June 2013

136lb (bloody chicken pie, plus egg glaze), alcohol units 7 (counting last night), hangovers 1 (cataclysmic), temperature 90 degrees, peppers chopped 12, melon balls consumed 35, wrinkles appeared during course of day 45, number of times used word ‘fart’ in texts to Roxster 9 (undignified).

Awoke at first light feeling everything was OK, then suddenly glimpsed the tip of the iceberg of the train wreck of last night. Doorbell rang at 10 p.m. at which I sprayed myself with perfume and answered the door in more or less nothing but the white shirt.

Roxster said, ‘Mmm, you look so nice,’ and started kissing me all the way down the stairs. We ate the chicken pie, and downed the bottle of red wine he’d brought. He said I was to sit down on the sofa and relax, while he washed up. I watched him, thinking how lovely everything was, but still vaguely wondering why and how he’d managed to eat a curry and then a chicken pie and not feel or look like he had eaten a Bambi. Then he came over and knelt at my feet.

‘I have something to say,’ he said.

‘What?’ I said, smiling at him sleepily.

‘I’ve never said this to any woman before. I heart you, Jonesey. I really, seriously heart you.’

‘Oh,’ I said, looking at him slightly crazily, one eye closed and one open.

‘And if it wasn’t for the age difference,’ he went on, ‘I’d be down on one knee. I really would. You’re the best woman I’ve ever met and I’ve hearted every minute we’ve had together. But it’s different for you because you’ve got your kids and I haven’t got my life sorted out. This is just not going anywhere. I really need to meet someone my own age, and I can’t do that unless I’m able to do that. Does that make any sense whatsoever?’

Maybe if I’d been less tired I’d have tried to talk it through properly, but instead I immediately turned into Girl Guide mode, launching into a cheery speech about how of course he was right! He must find someone his own age! But it had been marvellous for both of us, and we’d both learned and grown so much!

Roxster was staring at me with a haunted expression.

‘But can we still be friends?’ he said.

‘Of course,’ I gushed joyfully.

‘Do you think we’ll be able to see each other without tearing each other’s clothes off?’

‘Of course!’ I said merrily. ‘Anyway, chuh! Best be getting off to bed. Sports Day tomorrow!’

I saw him out, with a fixed, cheery smile, then, instead of doing the sensible thing and texting Rebecca and asking her to come over, or calling Talitha or Tom or Jude or anyone, really, I got into bed and sobbed for two hours until I fell asleep. And now, oh, shit, it’s 6 a.m., the kids will be up in an hour and I have to take chopped vegetables and both of them to Sports Day, on half a bottle of red wine and four hours’ sleep, in the now, freakishly, blazing heat.