Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(46)

‘Quick, the doors are closing!’ He pushed me towards the train and I squeezed in. The doors closed and I watched him as the train pulled out, just standing there, smiling to himself: gorgeous, gorgeous toy boy.

Came up from the tube into Chalk Farm, euphoric and completely over-aroused. There was a ping on text. It was from Roxster.

<Have you made it home or are you riding round in circles, confused?>

Texted back: <Help, I’m at Stanmore. Have you got the sick out of your teeth yet?>

No reply. I shouldn’t have put the thing about the sick.

Another text!

<No, because I can’t find my reading glasses. Are you shortly going to reuse the sicky toothbrush?>

<Just using it. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmm>

11.40 p.m. Just bustled Chloe out of the house, rather rudely, so could carry on texting.

Here it comes! I love being back in the world of flirting again. It’s so romantic. Oh.

<I love the taste of your sick.>

Sent back: <Oh, Roxster. You haven’t been reading your dating books, have you?>

Long pause. Oh no. That was the wrong tone. Not flirty. Schoolmistress. Blown it already.

11.45 p.m. Just went upstairs to check the children: Billy beautiful, asleep with Horsio. Mabel snuggled up, head on back to front, with Saliva. Never mind. I’m rubbish at dating but at least I’m keeping the children alive.

11.50 p.m. Rushed back downstairs to check phone. Nothing.

This is all wrong. Am a single mother, cannot afford to be tossed this way and that by vagaries of texting total stranger young enough to be legal son.

11.55 p.m. Text just came.

<You looked beautiful, it was a great kiss and I had a wonderful time.>

Surge of happiness. But then realized he hadn’t suggested another date. Should I reply or leave it? Leave it. Jude says you should always be the last one in the texting thread.

11.57 p.m. I wish he was here, I wish he was here. Though of course would never bring a young whippersnapper man back to the house. Obviously.

Wednesday 23 January 2013

5.15 a.m. Such a good job he isn’t here. Mabel just burst into my bedroom with a loud clatter. Only instead of being in pyjamas with her head on back to front she was fully dressed in her school uniform. Poor little thing, I think she was so obsessed with me creating the appearance of lateness, by being flappy in the mornings, that she decided to get dressed well in advance. I do see her point, but the thing is, when Chloe does the school run, she arrives at 7 a.m. all shiny and fully dressed, calmly helps the children to dress, prepares breakfast, allows them to watch TV without becoming randomly infuriated by the plot lines and overexcited high-pitched screaming on SpongeBob SquarePants then has them out of the door by eight and waiting on the wall when the school door opens.

I mean, I did all that yesterday and we were on the wall, freakishly, by 8.05, which I guess was good? Spending ten minutes sitting on a wall? I suppose it improves social interaction with the other parents.

Anyway, I snuggled her down to sleep in all her clothes, finally got back to sleep myself, then slept through the alarm.





GETTING TO SECOND DATE


Thursday 24 January 2013

9.15 p.m. Children are asleep. Almost forty-eight hours have passed since Roxster’s last text.

Determined not to ask for friends’ advice because – cf. Dating Rules – if I need friends to orchestrate the whole relationship there is clearly something wrong with it.

9.20 p.m. Just called Talitha and read her Roxster’s last text.

<You looked beautiful, it was a great kiss and I had a wonderful time.>

‘And you left it at that?’

‘Yes. He didn’t suggest meeting again or anything. It’s like he was saying he had a great time and drawing a line under it.’

‘Oh, darling.’

‘What?’

‘What am I going to do with you? How long is it since he sent this text?’

‘Two days.’

‘TWO DAYS? And he sent it at night, at the end of the date? OK. Hang on. Put this.’

Text pinged up from Talitha.

<I’ve finally recovered from my embarrassment at vomiting on our first date. I had a wonderful time too. And it was a great kiss. What are you up to?>

‘It’s really good – but “What are you up to?” Isn’t that a bit . . .?’

‘Don’t overthink it. Just send it. Frankly, I won’t blame him if he takes three days to reply out of pique.’

I sent it. Then regretted it at once and headed for the fridge.

Just as I’d taken out a bag of grated cheese and the wine bottle the text pinged.

<Jonesey! I was worried you’d choked on your own sick. I’m in the Holiday Inn, Wigan. Have meeting with the District Council recycling department. What are you up to? Looking for your glasses?>

<Roxster, that’s just silly. If I was looking for my glasses I wouldn’t be able to read the text.>

<You might have had someone from Help the Aged round to help you. Busy weekend lined up, Jonesey?>

Roxster is fantastic. I don’t even need to text Talitha or check Dating Rules to see if that’s an invitation. It is! It definitely is! Oh no, but it’s St Oswald’s House Hard-Hats-Offing this weekend. And I can’t tell Roxster my mum’s in a retirement community because his mum might be the same age as me.