Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(52)

‘If it feels right, darling, go for it. Any red flags, call me. I’m on the end of the phone.’

When we got outside – Soho again, but Friday night this time, so seriously no taxis – he said, ‘How are you going to get home? The tubes have stopped.’

I reeled. After all the preparation, and the thumb stroking, and calling friends, we actually were just jolly friends. This was terrible.

‘Jonesey,’ he grinned. ‘Have you ever been on a night bus? I think I’m going to have to see you home.’

On the night bus, I felt as though parts of other people were going into parts of me I didn’t even know existed. I felt like I was being more intimate with members of the night-bus community than I’d ever been with anyone in my whole life. Roxster, however, looked worried, like the night bus was his fault.

‘OK?’ he mouthed.

I nodded cheerfully, wishing I was squeezed up against Roxster instead of the weird woman with whom I was practically having the sort of lesbian car-wash sex explored in Daniel’s magazine.

The bus stopped and people started getting off. Roxster muscled through to an empty seat, and sat down, in a way which seemed uncharacteristically ungallant. Then, when everyone had settled down, he got up and installed me in his place. I smiled up at him, proud at how handsome and beefy he was, but saw him looking down with a horrified expression. A woman was silently retching onto my boot.

Roxster was now trying to control his laughter. It was our stop, and, as we got off, he put his arm round me.

‘A night without vomit is a night without Jonesey,’ he said. ‘Hang on.’ He strode into the late-night supermarket and reappeared with a bottle of Evian, a newspaper and a handful of paper napkins.

‘I’m going to have to start carrying these with me. Stand still.’

He poured the water over my boot and knelt down and wiped off the sick. It was terribly romantic.

‘Now I smell of sick,’ he said ruefully.

‘We can wash it off at home,’ I said, heart leaping that there was a reason for him to come in, even if it was vomit.

As we got close to the house I could see him looking all around, trying to place where we were, and what sort of place I lived in. I was so nervous when we got to the door. My hands were shaking as I put the key in the lock and couldn’t get it to open.

‘Let me do it,’ he said.

‘Come in,’ I said, in an absurdly formal voice, as if I was a 1970s cocktail hostess.

‘Shall I go somewhere till the babysitter goes?’ he whispered.

‘They’re not here,’ I whispered back.

‘You have two babysitters? And yet you’ve left the children alone?’

‘No,’ I giggled. ‘They’re with their godparents,’ I added, changing Daniel into ‘godparents’ in case Roxster somehow sensed that Daniel is a sexually available man, at least until you get to know him.

‘So we’ve got the house to ourselves!’ Roxster boomed. ‘Can I go and wash the sick off?’

I showed him to the loo halfway up the stairs, then rushed down to the kitchen basement, brushed my hair and put more blusher on, dimming the lights, realizing as I did that Roxster had never actually seen me in daylight.

Suddenly had vision of self as one of those older women who insist on spending their entire time indoors with the curtains drawn, lit only by firelight or candlelight, then completely miss their mouth with the lipstick whenever anyone comes round.

Then I had a terrible moment of guilt and panic about Mark. I felt like I was being unfaithful, like I was about to step off a cliff and like I was far, far away from everything that I knew and everything that was safe. I leaned over the sink, feeling as though I was going to be . . . well . . . fittingly, I suppose . . . sick, then suddenly I heard Roxster bursting out laughing. I turned.

Oh, shit! He was looking at Chloe’s chart.

Chloe had decided that Billy and Mabel would be far better in the mornings if they had a STRUCTURE, and so had drawn up a chart of what is supposed to happen, more or less moment-by-moment, when she takes them to school. This was absolutely fine, except it was ridiculously large, and one of the entries, which Roxster was now reading out, said:

7.55 a.m. to 8 a.m. Hugs and Kisses with Mummy!

‘Do you even know their names?’ he said. Then seeing my face, he laughed and held his hand out for me to smell.

‘They’re perfect,’ I said. ‘Vomit-free. Would you like a glass of . . .?’ but Roxster was already kissing me. He wasn’t rushing at it. He was gentle, almost tender, but in control.

‘Shall we go upstairs?’ he whispered. ‘I want hugs and kisses with Mummy.’

I started off being nervous, wondering if my bum looked fat from behind and below, but realized Roxster was focused, instead, on turning the lights off as we went. ‘Tsk tsk, what about the National Grid, Jonesey?’ Ah, the young people and their concern for the planet!

When I opened the door to the bedroom the room looked beautiful, just lit by the light from the landing and Roxster at least didn’t turn that one off. He stepped inside, pushing the door half closed behind him. He took off his shirt. I gasped. He looked like an advert. He looked like he’d been airbrushed with a six-pack. There was no one in the house, the lights were low, he was good, he was safe, he was gorgeous beyond belief. Then he said, ‘Come here, baby.’