Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(74)

<Am I in the fantasies at all, or just the food?>

<*Googling menu* Of course you are, my little chicken and mushroom puffball.>

11 a.m. Feeling suddenly light and giddy, I booked the room and texted: <I just called them and they said you do actually have to take a marriage certificate.>

Long pause, then . . .

<You’re joking, right?>

<Roxster, you are so easy to wind up.>





MINI-BREAK OR BREAK-UP?


Saturday 8 June 2013

Texting has been more high-spirited than ever with Roxby McDuff, full of plans for our trip, so maybe it was just a wobble brought on by the Ellen Boschup toy-boy article, and he is in the Present Moment and everything is all right.

But anyway had better finish packing or will miss train. Ooh, text from Roxster.

<Jonesey?>

Was he going to cancel?

<Yes, Roxster?> I texted nervously.

<*On one knee* Will you be my wife?>

Stared at the phone. What was going on?

<Roxster, is this to do with the food in the prenup?>

<It says I’m due a Full English with eggs, bacon, mushrooms and flambeed sausages every Sunday. Marry me?>

Thought carefully, then, suspecting a trick, I texted:

<The thing is, if we get married, won’t that somehow seem like I’m getting too serious?>

<Dunno. I was only thinking about the food.>

Sunday 9 June 2013

Mini-breaks 1, shags 7, alcohol units 17, calories 15,892, weight 193lb (including, feels like, 60lb small animal).

Mini-break was heaven. It was ambrosia. We carried on the marriage joke all weekend. It was balmy, sunny weather and it was blissful being away from the noise and to-do lists. Roxster was at his most cheerful and merry. The pub was tiny, in a hidden valley by a little river. The Bridal Suite was in a separate barn, painted white, with a sloping ceiling and rough wooden beams, and windows on two sides, one side looking straight onto the river and, beyond, a water meadow. Tried to block out memories of Bridal Suite for my real wedding with Mark. But started laughing when Roxster carried me over the threshold, pretending to stagger under the weight, and flung me on the bed.

The windows were open and all you could hear was the river, birds, and sheep in the distance. We had sleepy dreamy sex, then slept for a while. Then we walked along the river and found a little ancient chapel, where we pretended to get married and that the cows were our wedding guests. Eventually we came to another pub, and drank too much beer to quench our thirst and topped it with wine. There was no talk about breaking up. I did tell Roxster about being sacked from Leaves and he was so sweet and said they were all mad, and didn’t appreciate my rare genius, and he was going to fight them with his beefy arms. Then we ate a meal so gigantic that afterwards I could hardly move. I had this huge . . . thing in my stomach . . . it felt like being pregnant with a strange creature with very protuberant arms and legs.

We went outside to try and walk it off. There was a full moon, and I suddenly thought about Mabel: ‘There’th the moon. It followth me.’ I thought about Mark, and all the times the moon had followed us, and all the years when I was sure, sure that he would always be there and that there wasn’t heartbreak ahead, just years of being together, stretching before us.

‘You all right, baby?’ said Roxster.

‘I feel like I’ve eaten a Bambi,’ I laughed, to cover the moment.

‘I feel like I want to eat you,’ said Roxster. He put his arm round my shoulders and everything felt fine again. We walked along the river a bit, then got into a bog, and decided it was too dark and too far and went back to the pub and rang for a taxi.

When we got home to the room, the windows were wide open, and the room was filled with the scent of blossom and the gentle sound of the river. Unfortunately, though, the Bambi was so huge that all I could do was put on my slip and lie face downwards on the bed, feeling as though there was a massive dent beneath me in the mattress containing the Bambi. Then suddenly a dog started barking, really loudly, right outside the window. It just wouldn’t stop. Then the Bambi eased itself slightly and embarrassingly by letting out an enormous fart.

‘Jonesey!’ said Roxster. ‘Was that a fart?’

‘Maybe just a teensy-weensy little pfuff of Bambi,’ I said sheepishly.

‘Little pfuff? It was more like a plane taking off. It’s even silenced the dog!’

It had. But then the bloody dog started barking again. It was like being on a housing estate on the outskirts of Leeds.

‘I’ll give you something to take your mind off it, baby,’ said Roxster.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

10 p.m. Back in London now. Blissful. Got home at six feeling like a new woman. Children seemed to have had a really good time and I was delighted to see them again, and was so full of joie de vivre and bonhomie that even a Sunday evening, with the panic of forgotten homework, passed in a golden joy of 50s-style hearth and home. Better, Easier Parenting? Just get laid a lot.

Ooh, text.

Roxster: <Married life is pretty nice, don’t you think, honey?>

Hmm. Suspected a trick. Still wary from the whole confusion/panic attack thing.

Me: <*Farts* Not catching me out being lovey-dovey.>

Roxster: <*Sobs*>

Me: <*Evil cackle* I didn’t heart the weekend at all, honestly.>