Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(78)
Awoke at first light feeling everything was OK, then suddenly glimpsed the tip of the iceberg of the train wreck of last night. Doorbell rang at 10 p.m. at which I sprayed myself with perfume and answered the door in more or less nothing but the white shirt.
Roxster said, ‘Mmm, you look so nice,’ and started kissing me all the way down the stairs. We ate the chicken pie, and downed the bottle of red wine he’d brought. He said I was to sit down on the sofa and relax, while he washed up. I watched him, thinking how lovely everything was, but still vaguely wondering why and how he’d managed to eat a curry and then a chicken pie and not feel or look like he had eaten a Bambi. Then he came over and knelt at my feet.
‘I have something to say,’ he said.
‘What?’ I said, smiling at him sleepily.
‘I’ve never said this to any woman before. I heart you, Jonesey. I really, seriously heart you.’
‘Oh,’ I said, looking at him slightly crazily, one eye closed and one open.
‘And if it wasn’t for the age difference,’ he went on, ‘I’d be down on one knee. I really would. You’re the best woman I’ve ever met and I’ve hearted every minute we’ve had together. But it’s different for you because you’ve got your kids and I haven’t got my life sorted out. This is just not going anywhere. I really need to meet someone my own age, and I can’t do that unless I’m able to do that. Does that make any sense whatsoever?’
Maybe if I’d been less tired I’d have tried to talk it through properly, but instead I immediately turned into Girl Guide mode, launching into a cheery speech about how of course he was right! He must find someone his own age! But it had been marvellous for both of us, and we’d both learned and grown so much!
Roxster was staring at me with a haunted expression.
‘But can we still be friends?’ he said.
‘Of course,’ I gushed joyfully.
‘Do you think we’ll be able to see each other without tearing each other’s clothes off?’
‘Of course!’ I said merrily. ‘Anyway, chuh! Best be getting off to bed. Sports Day tomorrow!’
I saw him out, with a fixed, cheery smile, then, instead of doing the sensible thing and texting Rebecca and asking her to come over, or calling Talitha or Tom or Jude or anyone, really, I got into bed and sobbed for two hours until I fell asleep. And now, oh, shit, it’s 6 a.m., the kids will be up in an hour and I have to take chopped vegetables and both of them to Sports Day, on half a bottle of red wine and four hours’ sleep, in the now, freakishly, blazing heat.
6 p.m. Managed to get everyone and everything into car on time, drive to sports ground, and then get everybody and everything out of the car by pretending was soldier in a war combined with the Dalai Lama. Billy and Mabel had forgotten all about the Father’s Day trauma and were wildly jolly, running off immediately to charge around with their friends, mercifully forgetting all about their melting-down mother as well.
Unfortunately, however, in the midst of laying out picnic rugs and chopped vegetables, said melting-down mother was suddenly overcome with un-Zen-like rage at Roxster for putting her into such a meltdown and sent off a blistering texting rant which went as follows:
<Roxster. It was fartingly manipulative and selfish to do that like that last night, after you’d pretended to marry me and eaten my GLAZED chicken pie, and you can just stuff your chicken pie and a Full English Breakfast and curry up your own bum and go fart at yourself, you selfish fart-bum.>
Broke off briefly to graciously pour out some of my giant bottle of Pimm’s for Farzia and the other mothers.
<You fartingly don’t have anyone to think about except your FARTING self at the moment and all I can say is, when you have a baby with some . . . some Saffron who will probably not be able to afford on-tap nannies you’re going to get a bit of a shock. And if receiving a texting rant makes you feel bad, then good. Because so do I, and I’m at a FARTING SPORTS DAY!>
Then turned back to the group, commenting flatteringly upon the delicious picnic, before returning to my text with an apologetic smile suggesting that I was a very busy and important businesswoman and not just texting farts to a toy boy who had dumped me unequivocally for being too old.
The phone vibrated.
Roxster: <In my defence, I didn’t fart once last night, despite having just eaten a curry.>
Me: <Well, I’m just sending the most GIANT FART WITH EXTRA STINK right out of my bum at Sports Day so get ready.>
Quickly checked the children – Billy was running round maniacally with a group of boys and Mabel and another small girl were cheerfully saying obscurely mean things to each other – then returned to my texting exchange.
Roxster: <How do you add extra stink to a fart? Quickly eat a parsnip?>
Me: <Spend the evening with a FUCKING FARTER.>
Roxster: <I just farted into a taxi and told it to go to the Junior Branch sports ground.>
Me: <Yes, well, it’s probably airborne by now with the strength of your fart velocity.>
‘Enjoying supporting the sporting activities?’
It was Mr Wallaker, positively sneering down at my iPhone. Was just trying to get up, which, because I’d been sitting on my knees for so long, involved crashing onto all fours, when the starter pistol went off for the first race.
In that split second, I saw Mr Wallaker freeze, and his hand whip to his hip as if for a gun. I could see the powerful body tensed beneath his sports shirt, the muscle in his cheek working, eyes casing the playing fields. As the egg-and-spoon racers wobbled off the starting blocks, he blinked, as if remembering himself, then glanced round sheepishly to see if anyone had noticed.