Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy (28 page)

There was a sort of bonding prologue – which I am getting used to amongst women in the movie business – taken up with Ambergris complimenting me on my outfit, the fact that it was just the navy silk dress seeming irrelevant. I felt that I too must then compliment her on her sweats.

‘They look so . . . sporty!’ I gushed wildly, just as an absolutely enormous tea arrived on a three-tier cake stand. Ambergris took a tiny smoked-salmon sandwich and toyed with it for the rest of the conversation, during which I consumed the entire bottom layer of sandwiches, three scones with jam and clotted cream, a selection of miniature tarts and pastries, and both the free glasses of champagne.

Ambergris expressed awe and wonderment at my script, placing her hand on top of mine, saying, ‘I feel humbled.’

Spirits soaring with the notion that my voice was really going to be coming to the fore, I moved on to making nice about Dougie: brushing over the anxieties Ambergris clearly shared with Damian and Imogen, that he ‘so needed it’ and hadn’t actually made anything which anyone had heard of.

‘Dougie really understands my voice,’ I said, putting a reverential warmth into the word ‘Dougie’. ‘You should do a meeting with Dougie.’ (I so have the lingo down now.)

It was agreed that Ambergris would do a meeting with Dougie and, all too quickly, it was time for Ambergris to go. I felt like we were best friends already. Also felt that was about to throw up from consuming an entire tea for two plus both of our glasses of champagne.

5.45 p.m.
Just rang up Greenlight ‘from the car!’ to boast about the success of the meeting, only to find that Ambergris has already called – from her car! – to say how intelligent and empathetic she thinks I am!

TALITHA’S PARTY

It was the hottest day of the year and the sun was still high when we met for Talitha’s party. Roxster looked at his most gorgeous: in a white T-shirt, lightly tanned, a half-shadow outlining his jaw. The invitation said: ‘Casual Summer Party’. Was slightly worried about New Spring Whites dress, even though Talitha had chosen it, but when Roxster saw me he said, ‘Oh, Jonesey. You look perfect.’

‘You look perfect too,’ I said enthusiastically, practically panting with lust. ‘Your outfit’s absolutely
perfect
.’ At which Roxster, who clearly had no idea what he was wearing, looked down, puzzled, and said, ‘It’s just a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.’

‘I know,’ I said, giggling inwardly at the thought of Roxster’s ripped torso in a sea of suits and panama hats.

‘Do you think there’ll be a full buffet or just finger food?’

‘Roxster . . .’ I said warningly. He nuzzled up to me with a kiss. ‘I’m only here for you, baby. Do you think it’ll be hot dishes or just cold? Joke, joke, Jonesey.’

We walked, hand in hand, along a narrow old brick passageway, emerging into a huge hidden garden: sunlight on a blue swimming pool, white armchairs and mattresses for lounging, and a yurt – the quintessential English summer party with just a hint of Moroccan boutique hotel.

‘Shall I get us some food – I mean, drinks?’

I stood, lost, for a moment as Roxster trotted off in search of food, staring, scared, at the scene. It was that moment when you first arrive in a sea of people and your mind’s all jangly and you can’t recognize anyone you know. Suddenly felt I was wearing the wrong thing. I should have worn the navy silk dress.

‘Ah, Bridget?’ Cosmo and Woney. ‘Arriving all on your own again. Where are these “boyfriends” we’ve heard so much about then, eh? Maybe we can find you one tonight.’

‘Yes,’ said Woney conspiratorially. ‘Binko Carruthers.’

They nodded in the direction of Binko, who was looking around with his usual deranged expression, wild hair and plump body erupting at various points from, horrifyingly, instead of his usual crumpled suit, a pair of aquamarine flares and a psychedelic shirt with a frill down the front.

‘He thought it said sixties birthday party, not sixtieth,’ giggled Woney.

‘He said he’d be willing to take a look at you,’ said Cosmo. ‘Better get in quick, before he’s hoovered up by desperate divorcees.’

‘Here you go, baby.’ Roxster appeared at my side, holding two large flutes of champagne in one hand.

‘This is Roxby McDuff,’ I said. ‘Roxby, this is Cosmo and Woney.’

There was a corresponding flicker in Roxster’s hazel eyes at the names, as he handed me my glass.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said cheerfully, raising his glass to Cosmo and Woney.

‘Is this your nephew?’ said Cosmo.

‘No,’ said Roxster, pointedly putting his arm round my waist. ‘That would be a very odd relationship.’

Cosmo looked as though the rug of his entire socio-sexual world view had been pulled from under him. His face was like a fruit machine with different ideas and emotions whizzing past, failing to find a final combination to rest on.

‘Well,’ Cosmo said finally. ‘She’s certainly looking blooming.’

‘I can see why,’ said Woney, staring at the muscled forearm round my waist.

Just then Tom came up overeagerly. ‘Is this Roxster? Hi. I’m Tom. Happy birthday. ’Adding, to Cosmo and Woney, ‘It’s his thirtieth today! Ooh, there’s Arkis, must run.’

‘Later, Tom,’ said Roxster. ‘I’m ravenous. Shall we get some food, honey?’

As we turned, he slid his hand to my bum, and kept it there as we walked towards the buffet.

Tom glided up again, now with Arkis in tow – who was every bit as handsome as his Scruff app photos. I grinned gleefully.

‘I know, I know. I saw,’ said Tom. ‘You look revoltingly smug.’

‘It’s been so terribly hard,’ I said in a quavering voice. ‘Don’t I deserve a little happiness?’

‘Just don’t get too smug,’ he said. ‘Pride comes before a fall.’

‘You neither,’ I said, nodding at Arkis. ‘
Chapeau
.’

‘Let’s just enjoy, eh?’ said Tom, and we clinked glasses.

It was one of those heady evenings: languid, humid, sunlight still dappling on the pool. People were laughing, drinking and lying on mattresses, sucking on chocolate-coated strawberries. I was with Roxster, Tom was with Arkis, Jude was on her third date with, now, a wildlife photographer from
Guardian
Soulmates, who actually looked nice and not at all like he wanted to wee on her, and Talitha was looking stunning, in a floor-length one-shoulder peach gown, carrying a little dog – which Tom thought was an
absurd
touch – and trailed by her doting Silver Fox Russian billionaire. She joined us as Tom, Jude and I stood by the pool with our respective amours. Tom attempted to pat Talitha’s little chihuahua. ‘Did you get it from Net-a-Porter, darling?’ At which it tried to bite him.

‘She’s a present from Sergei,’ breathed Talitha. ‘Petula! Isn’t she adorable? Aren’t you adorable, darling? Aren’t you, aren’t you, aren’t you? You must be Roxster. Happy birthday.’

‘Happy birthday to both of you,’ I said, feeling tearful. There we were: the nucleus of Dating Centrale, the command centre of our emotional struggles, all, for once, happy and partnered up.

‘It’s a fantastic party,’ said Roxster, beaming, excited through a combination of food, champagne, Red Bull and vodka cocktails. ‘It’s literally the best party I’ve ever, ever been to in my entire life. Literally,
I’ve never been to a better party ever, ever. It’s an absolutely brilliant party, and the food is—’

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.’

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.