Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(68)

Talitha touched his lip with one finger. ‘You’re adorable,’ she said. ‘I demand the first dance for our birthday.’

One of the black-suited party planners was hovering in the background. He touched Talitha’s arm and whispered something.

‘Will you have her a minute, darling?’ she said, holding out the little dog to me. ‘I must just talk to the band.’

I’ve never really been sure about dogs, ever since I was rushed by Una and Geoffrey’s miniature labradoodle when I was six. Also, what about those pit bulls, which just ate a teenager? Somehow this anxiety must have communicated itself to Talitha’s chihuahua, because, as I took hold of her, she barked, nipped my hand and leaped out of my arms. I stared, aghast, as she flew through the air, wriggling, light as a feather, up, up, then down, down, into the swimming pool, where she disappeared.

There was a split second of silence, then Talitha shrieked, ‘Bridget! What are you doing? She can’t swim!’

Everyone stared as the little dog foundered to the surface in the middle of the pool, yapping, then disappeared under the water again. Suddenly, Roxster pulled his T-shirt over his shoulders, revealing his ripped torso. He dived straight into the pool, an arc of blue water, spray and muscle, then resurfaced, wet and glistening, at the other end of the pool having completely missed the dog, which took a last gulp of air, then sank. Roxster looked confused for a moment, then dived back under the water and emerged, holding a whimpering Petula. White teeth flashing in a grin, Roxster placed the little dog gently at Talitha’s feet, put his hands on the edge of the pool, and hauled himself effortlessly out of the water.

‘Jonesey,’ said Roxster. ‘We don’t throw dogs.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Tom. ‘Oh. My. God.’

Talitha was fussing over Petula. ‘My darling. My poor darling. You’re all right now, you’re all right.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘She just jumped right out of my—’

‘Don’t apologize,’ said Tom, still staring at my boyfriend.

‘Oh, my darling.’ Talitha was turning her attention to Roxster now. ‘My poor, brave darling. Let me help you out of those wet things—’

‘Don’t you dare re-dress him,’ growled Tom.

‘Actually, I think I need another Red Bull,’ grinned Roxster. ‘With a vodka.’

Talitha started dragging him off through the crowd, but he grabbed my hand and pulled me with him. The face that stayed with me from the sea of open mouths was Woney’s.

Ushering Roxster into the house, Talitha turned to me and murmured, ‘Now that, my darling, is what I call rebranding.’

More smartly dressed now, in one of the Silver Fox’s immaculate outfits, Roxster seemed oblivious to his rebranding role, and more interested in the celebrities he could spot in the crowd, most of whom I’d never heard of. Darkness was falling, lanterns were giving a soft, twinkling glow, the guests were getting drunker, the band was playing, people were starting to dance. I was – though smug – worried that there was something slightly wrong about using Roxster to rebrand: though I hadn’t deliberately used him, it had just happened. In fact, to tell the truth, I was actually falling helplessly in . . .

‘Come on, let’s dance, baby,’ said Roxster. ‘Let’s do it.’

He grabbed another vodka cocktail, a beer and a Red Bull, knocked them down, and asked for refills. Roxster was wild, he was exuberant. Roxster was, let’s face it, rapidly becoming paralytic.

He bounded onto the dance floor, where everyone was doing generationally appropriate hip-shaking and jigging, some women standing with their legs apart and moving their shoulders provocatively. I had never actually seen Roxster dance before. The band was playing a Supertramp hit and I stared at him in astonishment, as a space cleared around him, and I realized that his chosen dance style was pointing. He knew all the words to Supertramp, he was singing along, strutting like John Travolta, pointing in every direction and then, right on cue, just before the instrumental break, pointing at the stage as if conducting the band. Noticing me jigging uncertainly on the spot, he grabbed my hand and gave me his drink, gesturing eagerly for me to down it. I glugged it in one, and joined in the pointing, giving in to the fact that Roxster was going to whirl me round unsteadily, bear-hug me, knock me over and fondle my bum, then point, with everyone watching. What was not to like?

Later I stumbled, feet clearly needing a bunion operation, off to the loo, and returned to find the dance floor empty – I thought. Except that Jude was standing, clearly out-of-her mind drunk, staring at the dance floor and smiling fondly. Roxster was dancing happily on his own, a Kronenbourg in one hand now, pointing cheerfully with the other.

‘That was the best night of my entire life,’ he said to Talitha as we left, taking her hand and kissing it. ‘Literally the best food ever, ever, ever! And the party, of course. It was the best, you’re the best . . .’

‘I’m so glad you came. Thank you for saving my dog,’ breathed Talitha, like a gracious duchess. ‘Hope he’s still up to it, darling,’ she murmured in my ear.

Once out in the street, and away from the departing guests, Roxster stopped in the lamplight and held both my hands, grinning, then kissed me.

‘Jonesey,’ he whispered, looking into my eyes. ‘I . . .’ He turned away and did a little dance. He was so drunk. He turned back and looked sad for a moment, then happy, then burst out, ‘I heart you. I’ve never said this to a woman before. I wish I had a time machine. I heart you.’