Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(6)

10.30 a.m. Right. Am really going to get down to work on presentation of my script, which is an updating of the famous Norwegian tragedy Hedda Gabbler by Anton Chekhov, only set in Queen’s Park. Studied Hedda Gabbler for my English Literature finals at Bangor University, which unfortunately resulted in a Third. But maybe all that is about to be put right!

10.32 a.m. Imperative to concentrate.

11 a.m. Just made coffee and ate remains of children’s breakfast, then started mooning about remembering things from Roxster visit last night: appearance of Roxter at 11.15 p.m., gorgeous in jeans and a dark sweater, eyes sparkling, grinning, holding a Waitrose shepherd’s pie, two cans of baked beans and a Jamaican ginger cake.

Mmmm. The way his face looks when he’s on top of me, the stubble on the beautiful jawline, the slight gap in his front teeth, which you can only see from below, those beefy naked shoulders. Waking up sleepily in the middle of the night to feel Roxster kissing me very gently, my shoulder, my neck, my cheek, my lips, feeling his hard-on pressing against my thigh. Oh God, he is so beautiful and such a great kisser, and such a great . . . Mmm, mmm. Right, must think about the feminist, pre- and anti-feminist, themes in . . . Oh God, though. It is so delicious, it makes me so happy, like I’m in a bubble of happiness. Right, must get on.

11.15 a.m. Suddenly burst out laughing, remembering overblown mid-sex conversation last night.

‘Oh, oh, oh, you’re so hard.’

‘Hard because I want you, baby.’

‘So hard . . .’

‘You make me hard, baby.’

Then, for some reason, I got carried away and gasped, ‘You make ME hard.’

‘What?’ said Roxster, bursting out laughing. We both collapsed in giggles and then we had to start all over again.

Typically, in his cheerful manner, Roxster seemed unworried by the nits, though we both agreed that in order to have Responsible Sex, we must nit-comb each other first. Roxster was so funny, combing my hair, pretending to find and eat the nits, whilst intermittently kissing the back of my neck. When it was my turn to nit-comb Roxster, however, did not want to draw attention to my age by putting on reading glasses, so ended up studiously nit-combing his gorgeous thick hair, without being able to see anything at all. Fortunately Roxster seemed too keen to get it over with and into the bedroom for him to notice my blindness. And was probably fine because of his testosterone. But surely it is not normal to be too vain to put on your reading glasses to nit-comb your toy boy?

11.45 a.m. Right. My script! You see, Hedda Gabbler is really very relevant to the modern woman because it is about the perils of trying to live through men. Why hasn’t Roxster texted me yet? Hope it is not because of the insect incident.

Roxster and I were able, unusually, to have breakfast together today, as Chloe the nanny was taking them to school. Chloe, who has been working for me since just after it happened, is like the improved version of me: younger, thinner, taller, nicer, better at looking after the children, and with an age-appropriate life partner called Graham. Nevertheless, consider it better that Roxster does not meet either Chloe or the children at this stage, so he hides in the bedroom until they have all gone off to school.

Roxster was just happily tucking into his first bowl of muesli, when he spat his mouthful out onto the table. Obviously am used to this sort of thing, though not, admittedly, from Roxster. But then he held out the bowl. The muesli was jumping with tiny insects, flailing and drowning in the milk.

‘Are they nits?’ I said aghast.

‘No,’ he said darkly, ‘weevils.’

Unfortunately my response was to start giggling.

‘Have you any idea what it’s like to put a spoonful of insects in your mouth?’ he said. ‘I could have died. And, more importantly, so could they.’

Then, just as he was tipping the bowl into the correct food recycling bin, he cried, ‘Ants!’ There was a neat line of ants coming from the basement door to the food recycling bin. When he tried to move back the curtain to get rid of them, a small cloud of moths fluttered out.

‘Aaargh! It’s like the Nine Plagues of Egypt in here!’ he said.

And even though he laughed, and gave me a very sexy kiss in the hall, he did not say anything about impending weekend and I have a feeling something is wrong – even if only the combined insult to his three great loves: insects, food and recycling.

Noon. Gaah! Is noon already and have not prepared any of my Thoughts.

12.05 p.m. Still Roxster has not texted. Maybe I should text him? Clearly, in textbook terms, the gentleman should text the lady first after intercourse, but perhaps the whole socio-etiquettical system breaks down when an insect plague is involved.

12.10 p.m. Right. Hedda Gabbler.

12.15 p.m. Just texted: <So sorry about the Nine Plagues of Egypt and for laughing. Will have entire house and occupants fumigated for your next visit. Are you all right?>

12.20 p.m. Right. Excellent. Hedda Gabbler. Roxster has not replied.

12.30 p.m. Roxster has still not replied. This is not like Roxster.

Maybe will check emails. Sometimes Roxster switches electronic mediums just to show off.

Inbox is overrun not only by Ocado, ASOS, Snappy Snaps, Cotswold Holiday Cottages, links to amusing YouTube clips, offers of Mexican viagra, save the dates for Cosmata’s Build-A-Bear party, but also rash of parent mass emails over Atticus’s missing shoes.

Sender: Nicolette Martinez