Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(45)

‘Shut up, Roxster,’ I giggled. I mean, honestly, he did have a mental age of seven, but it was fun because it made me feel so at home. And maybe this was someone who wouldn’t be completely appalled by the bodily functions on display in our household.

As we opened the menus, I realized I didn’t have my glasses any more.

I looked at the blurry letters, panicking. Roxster didn’t notice. He seemed completely overexcited by the food. ‘Mmm. Mmm. What are you going to have, Jonesey?’

I stared at him like a rabbit caught in headlights.

‘Everything all right?’

‘I’ve lost my glasses,’ I mumbled sheepishly.

‘We must have left them on the bar,’ he said, getting up. Marvelling at his impressive young physique, I watched him go to where we had been standing, look around, and ask the barman.

‘They’re not there,’ he said, coming back, looking concerned. ‘Are they expensive ones?’

‘No, no, it’s fine,’ I lied. (They were expensive ones. And I really liked them.)

‘Would you like me to read the menu to you? I could cut up your food for you as well if you like.’ He started laughing. ‘Have to watch out for your teeth.’

‘Roxster, this is a very undesirable line of teasing.’

‘I know, I know, I’m sorry.’

After he’d read me the menu, I tried to remember the Dating Rules, rubbing my finger delicately up and down the stem of the wine glass, but there didn’t seem to be any point, as Roxster already had my knee between his strapping young thighs. Realized, even in the midst of excitement, was DETERMINED to find the glasses. Is so easy to let something like that go out of sexual distraction and embarrassment and they were really, really nice glasses.

‘I’m just going to look under the bar stool,’ I said, when we’d ordered.

‘But your knees!’

‘Stoppit.’

We both ended up crawling about under the stools. A pair of very young girls, who were sitting where we had been, were very snotty about it. Suddenly felt myself dying with embarrassment at being on a date with a toy boy and forcing him to look under young girls’ legs for my reading glasses.

‘There aren’t any glasses, OK?’ said one of the girls, staring at me rudely. Roxster rolled his eyes then dived under her knees again, saying, ‘Just while I’m down here . . .’ and began groping around on the floor. The girls were unamused. Roxster reared up triumphantly, brandishing the glasses.

‘Found them,’ he said and put them on my nose. ‘There you are, darling.’

He kissed me pointedly on the lips, gave the girls a look, and led me back to the table while I tried to recover my composure, hoping he couldn’t taste the sick.

Conversation seemed to flow quite effortlessly. His real name is Roxby McDuff and he does work for the eco-charity, met Talitha on the show, and jumped across from Talitha’s Twitter to my Twitter. ‘So you just, like, follow cougars?’

‘I don’t like that expression,’ he said.

‘It implies the hunter, rather than . . . the hunted.’

My discombobulation must have been obvious, because he added softly, ‘I like older women. They know what they’re doing a bit more. Have a bit more to say for themselves. How about you? What are you doing out with a younger man off Twitter?’

‘I’m just trying to widen my circle,’ I said airily.

Roxster looked straight at me, without blinking. ‘I can certainly help you with that.’





JOY MIXED WITH SICK


Tuesday 22 January 2013 (continued)

When it was time to go, we stood awkwardly in the street.

‘How are you going to get back?’ he said, which instantly made me feel a bit sad, because obviously he wasn’t planning to come back with me, even though obviously I wouldn’t have asked him to. Obviously.

‘Taxi?’ I said. He looked surprised. Realized I only ever come out into Soho with Talitha, Tom and Jude and we always share a taxi but that that must seem helplessly extravagant to a young person. There were, however, no taxis to be found.

‘Do you want me to summon a helicopter, or should we get the tube? Do you know how to get the tube?’

‘Of course I do!’ I said. But to be honest, it was all unfamiliar, being in the crowds of Soho late at night without the friends. It was quite exciting, though, as Roxster took my arm and led me to Tottenham Court Road tube.

‘I’ll see you down,’ he said. When we got to the barriers I realized I didn’t have my Oyster card. I tried to pay at the machines, but it was all impossible.

‘Come here,’ he said, taking out a spare card, swiping me through the barriers and leading me to the right platform. The train was approaching.

‘Quick, give me your mobile number,’ he said. ‘I now haven’t murdered you.’

I gave it to him really quickly and he typed it in. The doors were opening, people were pouring out.

Then quite suddenly, as if from nowhere, Roxster kissed me on the lips. ‘Mmm, sick,’ he said.

‘Oh, no! But I brushed my teeth.’

‘You brought a toothbrush? Are you always sick on your dates?’

Then seeing my horrified expression he laughed and said, ‘You don’t taste of sick.’ People were crushing themselves into the train. He kissed me again, gently, looking at me with his merry hazel eyes, then again this time with the mouth a little open, then delicately finding my tongue with his. This was MUCH better than stupid Leatherjacketman with his sex-crazed—