Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(89)

Another texting ping. Stared at the phone as if it was a creature in a space movie. I didn’t know what it was going to do next. It might suddenly rear up into a monster, or turn into a gentle little bunny. I opened it.

<Joke, Jonesey. Joke. *Hides*>

Looked eerily from side to side. Another texting ping.

<I have been thinking about the curry/chicken pie night, with some regret, for 3 weeks, 6 days and 15 hours, which if you check in Old Moore’s Almanac could technically be described as a calendar month. I was completely confused. And plastered. Please forgive me. You are younger-looking and younger-behaved than any woman I have ever met (including my niece who is 3). I miss you.>

What was he saying? Was he saying he’d rethought the whole thing and wanted to be with me? But did I want to be with him?

<Jonesey?>

<Yes, Roxster?>

<Will you at least have lunch with me?>

Roxster: <Or dinner?>

And again: <Or preferably lunch and dinner?>

Suddenly had flashbacks to all the delicious dinners and aftermaths we had enjoyed and had to stop self texting back: <And breakfast?>

Maybe Tom was right. Maybe Roxster wasn’t just dismissing me as a sad old bag. Texted: <Please be quiet. I am looking out of the window for passing dot-com billionaires wearing walking boots.>

<I am going to come over and fight them.>

<Would I need to be at the lunch or dinner or would it just mainly be the food?>

<We could meet without food if you like.>

This was UNHEARD OF. He must be really, really serious. I needed time to digest this.

Another texting ping.

<If you need time to digest this, if you’ll pardon the pun, I’ll wait.>

And another.

<Maybe just a packet of crisps?>

Was going to text: <Cheese and onion?> but maybe that suggested I thought he was being cheesy and there were onions hidden amongst the nice stuff.

So, again, I just texted what was true.

<I’d like that. As long as you promise not to fart.>





REKINDLING


Thursday 11 July 2013

Days of continuous sunshine 11, raindrops fallen on head 0 (unbelievable).

2 p.m. Is boiling hot. Still! No one can believe their luck. Everyone is out in the streets, bunking off work, drinking, wild for sex and complaining that it is too hot.

Texting is completely back on again with Roxster and he has been lovely, despite Talitha’s dire warnings about taking someone back after they have dumped you. And despite Tom’s dire warnings about people who are All Text and No Trousers, and professional warnings about the fact that I could only expect a future of mixed messages, and had I thought about what I actually wanted – apart from endless texting and sporadic nights of sex?

Roxster has explained about the curry and lateness on the break-up night, and said he wasn’t – as I suspected all along – having a curry with ‘colleagues’. In fact he was sitting on his own, stuffing his face with chicken korma, poppadoms and lager, because he was so confused, and suddenly overcrowded about being a proper boyfriend, and maybe becoming a father figure. And then, after he made his break-up speech, I seemed completely fine about it, almost relieved, delighted to break up, until the farting rant. And then, after that, he didn’t know what to do. And he is cheerful and sweet and light and so much better than lecherous married bastards. We are seeing each other on Saturday: for a walk on Hampstead Heath.





BLIMEY


Saturday 13 July 2013

3 p.m. Frantic preparation. Had to deal with Mum, who is taking Mabel and Billy to tea at Fortnum & Mason (good luck with that one, Mum). ‘Oh, Mabel’s wearing leggings, is she? Where do you keep your colanders?’

Dived out for leg wax and toenail polish, then washed hair and put on the Summer Concert see-through floaty dress, then thought it was bad karma, so changed it to a non-see-through pale pink one. Then got text from Farzia, asking if Billy and Jeremiah were going to football tomorrow as Bikram didn’t want to go unless they all went, then lost my flip-flops but couldn’t wear my other sandals because they’d squash the toenail varnish, then finally got to the pub with two minutes to spare and rushed to the loo to make sure I didn’t have too much make-up on like Barbara Cartland. Eventually sat down in the fabulous sunshine in the garden, like a relaxed, on-time Goddess of Light and Calm, and, as Roxster appeared, a seagull shat on my shoulder.

It was so exciting to see Roxster, looking gorgeous in a bright blue polo shirt, and be falling about laughing again about the seagull, and just having fun, and feeling like children on a spree, only more sexy. And we had a couple of beers, and Roxster had his food, and tried repeatedly to get the seagull poo off my boob and I was so . . . happy!

Then we set off for our walk, and the Heath was teeming with people rejoicing in the sunshine and complaining about it, couples in each other’s arms, and I was part of one too, arm in arm with Roxster. Then we came to a sun-dappled glade and sat down on a bench we’d sat down on often before. And after Roxster had finished laughing about the red dots he’d noticed on my legs from the leg wax, he looked serious. And he started to say that he’d been thinking, and although he really, really wanted to have children of his own, and really, really thought he ought to be with someone his own age, and didn’t know what his friends would say, or what his mum would say, he just didn’t think he would find anyone he got on with the way he got on with me. And he wanted to do it all, the whole thing, properly, and climb trees on the Heath, and be a dad to Billy and Mabel.