Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(67)

‘You look perfect too,’ I said enthusiastically, practically panting with lust. ‘Your outfit’s absolutely perfect.’ At which Roxster, who clearly had no idea what he was wearing, looked down, puzzled, and said, ‘It’s just a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.’

‘I know,’ I said, giggling inwardly at the thought of Roxster’s ripped torso in a sea of suits and panama hats.

‘Do you think there’ll be a full buffet or just finger food?’

‘Roxster . . .’ I said warningly. He nuzzled up to me with a kiss. ‘I’m only here for you, baby. Do you think it’ll be hot dishes or just cold? Joke, joke, Jonesey.’

We walked, hand in hand, along a narrow old brick passageway, emerging into a huge hidden garden: sunlight on a blue swimming pool, white armchairs and mattresses for lounging, and a yurt – the quintessential English summer party with just a hint of Moroccan boutique hotel.

‘Shall I get us some food – I mean, drinks?’

I stood, lost, for a moment as Roxster trotted off in search of food, staring, scared, at the scene. It was that moment when you first arrive in a sea of people and your mind’s all jangly and you can’t recognize anyone you know. Suddenly felt I was wearing the wrong thing. I should have worn the navy silk dress.

‘Ah, Bridget?’ Cosmo and Woney. ‘Arriving all on your own again. Where are these “boyfriends” we’ve heard so much about then, eh? Maybe we can find you one tonight.’

‘Yes,’ said Woney conspiratorially. ‘Binko Carruthers.’

They nodded in the direction of Binko, who was looking around with his usual deranged expression, wild hair and plump body erupting at various points from, horrifyingly, instead of his usual crumpled suit, a pair of aquamarine flares and a psychedelic shirt with a frill down the front.

‘He thought it said sixties birthday party, not sixtieth,’ giggled Woney.

‘He said he’d be willing to take a look at you,’ said Cosmo. ‘Better get in quick, before he’s hoovered up by desperate divorcees.’

‘Here you go, baby.’ Roxster appeared at my side, holding two large flutes of champagne in one hand.

‘This is Roxby McDuff,’ I said. ‘Roxby, this is Cosmo and Woney.’

There was a corresponding flicker in Roxster’s hazel eyes at the names, as he handed me my glass.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said cheerfully, raising his glass to Cosmo and Woney.

‘Is this your nephew?’ said Cosmo.

‘No,’ said Roxster, pointedly putting his arm round my waist. ‘That would be a very odd relationship.’

Cosmo looked as though the rug of his entire socio-sexual world view had been pulled from under him. His face was like a fruit machine with different ideas and emotions whizzing past, failing to find a final combination to rest on.

‘Well,’ Cosmo said finally. ‘She’s certainly looking blooming.’

‘I can see why,’ said Woney, staring at the muscled forearm round my waist.

Just then Tom came up overeagerly. ‘Is this Roxster? Hi. I’m Tom. Happy birthday. ’Adding, to Cosmo and Woney, ‘It’s his thirtieth today! Ooh, there’s Arkis, must run.’

‘Later, Tom,’ said Roxster. ‘I’m ravenous. Shall we get some food, honey?’

As we turned, he slid his hand to my bum, and kept it there as we walked towards the buffet.

Tom glided up again, now with Arkis in tow – who was every bit as handsome as his Scruff app photos. I grinned gleefully.

‘I know, I know. I saw,’ said Tom. ‘You look revoltingly smug.’

‘It’s been so terribly hard,’ I said in a quavering voice. ‘Don’t I deserve a little happiness?’

‘Just don’t get too smug,’ he said. ‘Pride comes before a fall.’

‘You neither,’ I said, nodding at Arkis. ‘Chapeau.’

‘Let’s just enjoy, eh?’ said Tom, and we clinked glasses.

It was one of those heady evenings: languid, humid, sunlight still dappling on the pool. People were laughing, drinking and lying on mattresses, sucking on chocolate-coated strawberries. I was with Roxster, Tom was with Arkis, Jude was on her third date with, now, a wildlife photographer from Guardian Soulmates, who actually looked nice and not at all like he wanted to wee on her, and Talitha was looking stunning, in a floor-length one-shoulder peach gown, carrying a little dog – which Tom thought was an absurd touch – and trailed by her doting Silver Fox Russian billionaire. She joined us as Tom, Jude and I stood by the pool with our respective amours. Tom attempted to pat Talitha’s little chihuahua. ‘Did you get it from Net-a-Porter, darling?’ At which it tried to bite him.

‘She’s a present from Sergei,’ breathed Talitha. ‘Petula! Isn’t she adorable? Aren’t you adorable, darling? Aren’t you, aren’t you, aren’t you? You must be Roxster. Happy birthday.’

‘Happy birthday to both of you,’ I said, feeling tearful. There we were: the nucleus of Dating Centrale, the command centre of our emotional struggles, all, for once, happy and partnered up.

‘It’s a fantastic party,’ said Roxster, beaming, excited through a combination of food, champagne, Red Bull and vodka cocktails. ‘It’s literally the best party I’ve ever, ever been to in my entire life. Literally, I’ve never been to a better party ever, ever. It’s an absolutely brilliant party, and the food is—’