Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(69)

If there is a God, I’m sure He has more to deal with, what with the Middle East crisis and everything, than giving tragic widows perfect nights of sex, but it did feel as though God had taken His mind off His other troubles that night.

The next morning, when Roxster had gone off to his rugby match and the children had been deposited at their respective magic and football parties, I climbed back into bed for an hour, savouring moments from the night before: Roxster emerging from the pool, Roxster in the lamplight, happy, saying, ‘I heart you.’

Sometimes, though, when a lot of things happen all at once your mind gets confused and you can only dissect all the bits of information later.

‘I wish I had a time machine.’

It bubbled up through all the other words and images from the night before. The split second of sadness in his eyes, before he said, ‘I heart you . . . I wish I had a time machine.’

It was the first time he had ever mentioned the age difference, apart from jokes about my knees and teeth. We had been caught up in the excitement, the exuberance of realizing that, in the flotsam and jetsam of cyberspace, we’d both found someone we really liked, and it wasn’t just a one-night stand, or a three-night stand, it was a real connection full of affection and fun. But in his moment of inebriated joy he had given himself away. It mattered to him, and with that came the elephant in the room.





PART THREE





HORRIBLE NO-GOOD VERY BAD DAY


Tuesday 4 June 2013

134lb, calories 5822, jobs 0, toy boys 0, respect from production company 0, respect from schools 0, respect from nanny 0, respect from children 0, entire bags of cheese eaten 2, entire packets of oatmeal cookies eaten 1, entire large vegetables eaten 1 (a cabbage).

9 a.m. Mmm. Another highly erotic night with Roxster. Though at the same time, feel lurch of unease. Billy and Mabel weren’t quite asleep when he arrived, and they came downstairs crying, because Billy said Mabel had thrown Saliva and ‘blinded’ him in one eye. Took ages to get them back to sleep.

When I came down again, Roxster, not realizing I was there, looked a bit pissed off.

I said, ‘Sorry!’ and he looked up and laughed in his usual merry way and said, ‘It just wasn’t how I imagined I was going to be spending the evening.’

Anyway, once the food was on the go he was back to normal. And it was dreamy. The bathroom chair and mirror really came into their own. And the mini-break is next weekend! We are going to find a pub in the country and go hiking and shagging and eating and everything! Chloe has done the school run so can get early start on Leaves – which is starting to look less like an impossible dream and more like a fantastic reality – a movie, written by me, starring Ambergris Bilk! So everything’s fine. Definitely. Must just get on with rewriting it.

9.15 a.m. Mmmmm. Keep getting flashbacks to last night in the bathroom.

9.25 a.m. Just sent Roxster text saying: <Mmmmm. Was so lovely having you to stay.>

9.45 a.m. Only thing is, why hasn’t he replied? ‘I wish I had a time machine.’ Oh God, why do I have all these images of myself that I immediately go to – like I’m a stalker, or a tragic deluded grandmother waddling around a discotheque in leggings and a sleeveless top with flappy arms, frizzy hair, a sticking-out stomach and a novelty tiara.

9.47 a.m. Right. Have got to pull self together, get up and get on. Cannot be floating around in lingerie having some completely unnecessary push-me-pull-you inner dialogue about why toy boy hasn’t responded to text, when have screenplay to write and children to take responsibility and schedule things for.

But why hasn’t he texted back?

9.50 a.m. Will check email.

9.55 a.m. Nothing. Just a forwarded email from George from Greenlight. Maybe something nice?

10 a.m. OMG. Just opened the forwarded email and detonated a bomb.

FWD: Sender: Ambergris Bilk

To: George Katernis

Just spoke with Dougie. He’s soooooooo awesome. Am so totally Leaves now. So glad he’s on the same page about putting a proper screenwriter on it.

For a few moments I stared blankly at the screen.

‘A proper screenwriter.’

A PROPER SCREENWRITER?

Then I picked up a quarter of a cabbage which Chloe had for some reason left on the kitchen table (did she persuade them to eat some sort of cabbage recipe from the Gwyneth Paltrow cookbook for breakfast?), started shoving the cabbage into my mouth, biting at fronds, and walking very fast round the kitchen table dropping bits of cabbage down the front of my slip and onto the floor. There was a ping on the phone: Roxster.

<It was, wasn’t it? But now I am very confused about our relationship. Terribly, terribly confused, baby.>

There was another ping on the text: Infants Branch.

<Mabel has a septic finger. Her nail is almost off. From the look of it, it must have been like this for several days.>

10.15 a.m. Calm and poised. Will simply open fridge, take out grated mozzarella and shove into mouth, along with more cabbage.

10.16 a.m. OK, is all in mouth now. Will just have swig of Red Bull to top it off. Oh! Telephone! Maybe Roxster regretting the text?

11 a.m. Was Imogen from Greenlight. ‘Bridget. There’s been a terrible mistake. George has just forwarded you an email in error. Could you possibly delete it before you . . . Bridget? Bridget??’

Was not able to reply owing to contents of mouth. Rushed over to the sink and spurted out the Red Bull, grated mozzarella and cabbage, just as Chloe appeared at the top of the stairs. I turned round and grinned at her, bits of the cabbage and grated mozzarella falling from my teeth, like a vampire caught eating a person.