Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(103)

I waited, breathless, feeling the snow on my cheeks, then he reappeared, with the bassoon and the plastic bag of sausages.

‘Your sausages,’ he said, handing them to me.

‘Yes! Sausages! Good King Wenceslas! The butcher!’ I gabbled nervously.

We were standing very close.

‘Look!’ he said, pointing above. ‘Isn’t that mistletoe?’

‘I think you’ll find it’s an elm with no leaves,’ I continued to gabble without looking up. ‘I mean, it probably just looks like mistletoe because of the snow and—’

‘Bridget.’ He reached out and gently traced my cheekbone with his finger, the cool blue eyes burning into mine, teasing, tender, hungry. ‘This isn’t a biology lesson.’ He raised my mouth to his and kissed me once, lightly, then again, more urgently, and added, ‘. . . yet.’

Oh God. He was so masterful, he was such a MAN! And then we were kissing properly and it felt, once more, like everything was going crazy inside me, flashes and pulses, and like I was driving a super-fast car in a pair of stilettos again, but this time it was all right because the person actually at the wheel was . . .

‘Mr Wallaker,’ I gasped.

‘So sorry,’ he murmured. ‘Did I catch you with the bassoon?’

We both agreed we should take the bassoon safely back to his place, which was a huge flat in one of the lanes off the high street. It had old wooden floors and a blazing fire with a fur hearthrug and candles, and the smell of cooking. A small, smiling Filipino lady was bustling around the kitchen area.

‘Martha!’ he said. ‘Thank you. It looks wonderful. You can go now. Thank you.’

‘Ooh, Mr Wallaker’s in a hurry.’ She smiled. ‘I’m on my way. How the concert go?’

‘It was great,’ I said.

‘Yes, great,’ he said, bustling her out, kissing her on the top of her head. ‘Brass band a bit off but generally good.’

‘You take care of him,’ she said as she left. ‘He the best, Mr Wallaker, the best man.’

‘I know,’ I said.

As the door closed, we stood like children left alone in a sweet shop.

‘Look at this coat,’ he murmured. ‘You’re such a mess. That’s why I . . .’

And then he started slowly unbuttoning the coat, slipping it off my shoulders. For a moment I thought maybe this was a practised routine – maybe that’s why Martha was so quick to leave – but then he said, ‘That’s partly why . . .’ He pulled me close, his hand slipping to my back, starting to slowly undo my zip, ‘I fell . . . in . . . fell in . . .’

I felt my eyes filling with tears, and for a second I could swear his were too. Then he pulled himself back into masterful mode, and laid my head against his shoulder. ‘I’m going to kiss away all your tears. All your tears,’ he growled, ‘after I’ve finished with you.’

Then he carried on with the zip, which went all the way down, so that the dress fell to the floor, leaving me in my boots and – Merry Christmas, Talitha – black La Perla slip.

When we were both naked I couldn’t believe the naughty perfection of Mr Wallaker’s familiar, handsome, school-gates head on top of that incredibly ripped, naked body.

‘Mr Wallaker!’ I gasped again.

‘Will you stop calling me Mr Wallaker?’

‘Yes, Mr Wallaker.’

‘OK. That’s a cut-and-dried Caution which is going to lead inevitably . . .’ he picked me up in his arms, as if I was as light as a feather, which I am not, unless it was a very heavy feather, maybe from a giant prehistoric dinosaur-type bird, ‘. . . to a Misdemeanour,’ he said, laying me gently by the fire.

He kissed my neck, moving slowly, exquisitely downwards. ‘Oh, oh,’ I gasped. ‘Did they teach you this in the SAS?’

‘Naturally,’ he said eventually, raising himself up, looking down with his amused expression. ‘The British special forces have the finest training in the world. But ultimately . . .’

He was pressing now, gently, deliciously, at first, then more and more insistently, till I was melting like a . . . like a— ‘. . . ultimately it’s all about . . .’ – I gasped – ‘. . . the pistol.’

All hell broke loose then. It was like being in heaven, or other, similar paradise. I came and I came and I came, repeatedly, in a tribute to Her Majesty and the training of Her forces, till finally he said, ‘I don’t think I can hold on any longer.’

‘Just go, for it,’ I managed, and finally we both – in a perfect, miraculous, simultaneous explosion of months of desire at the school gates – did.

Afterwards we lay back, panting, exhausted. Then we slept in each other’s arms, then woke and did it again, and again, all night.

At 5 a.m. we had some of Martha’s soup. We huddled by the fire and talked. He told me what had happened in Afghanistan: an accident, a mistaken attack, women, children killed, finding the aftermath. Deciding he’d done his bit and he was through. And this time, I put my arms around him, and stroked his head.

‘I do take your point,’ he murmured.

‘What?’

‘Cuddling. Quite good really.’

He talked about starting at the school. He wanted to be away from the violence, make life simple, be with children and do some good things. He wasn’t prepared for the mothers, though, the competitiveness and the complication. ‘But then one of them was kind enough to show off her thong when stuck up a tree. And I started to think that life could possibly be a bit more fun.’