Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy (37 page)

Stared at phone, mind spooling through all the texts I’d made up in case he got in touch:

Instead, impulsively texted back:

The Leaves in His Hair
. Hahaha! I had no idea you liked skydiving so much! Oh God *lunges at wine bottle*.>

There was a pause. Then another ping on the phone.

There was another pause. What was he going to say? Something
kind? Something patronizingly meant to be kind? Something apologizing? Something that would hurt?

I stared at it. All those mean things I had planned to say . . . My finger hovered over the phone. And then I simply texted back the truth.

Then immediately thought, ‘Shit! Why didn’t I just put one of the less-mean-but-funny ones? Now he’ll just have got his ego-reassurance and bugger off.’ Text ping.

Another ping.

<*YELLS* JONESEYYYY?>

Me: <*Calm, slightly distracted* Yeeees?>

And we were off!

Roxster:

Me: <*Airy, dismissive* Well, it’s hardly surprising. How dare you draw attention to my age in that impertinent and unnecessary fashion? Oh, oh, look at me, I’m so young and you’re so old.>

Roxster:

I laughed. I was indeed pleased with myself. There was such a rush of joy and relief that we were back with that secure feeling of knowing someone cares, and understands your sense of humour, and it wasn’t all cold and empty and over, we were still there.

But then at the same time there was a dark, lurking fear of getting back into it.

I waited. Texting ping.

THAT’S DISGUSTING!! That’s absolutely against the rules of . . . of . . . Feel like ringing the police! Surely there should be
some sort of DATING OMBUDSMAN who legislates against this sort of thing!

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.

Looked eerily from side to side. Another texting ping.

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?

Roxster:

And again:

Suddenly had flashbacks to all the delicious dinners and aftermaths we had enjoyed and had to stop self texting back:

Maybe Tom was right. Maybe Roxster wasn’t just dismissing me as a sad old bag. Texted:

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

Another texting ping.

And another.

Was going to text: 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.

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.

I stared at him. I did really heart Roxster, I hearted that he was so beautiful and young and sexy, but more than that hearted who he was and what he stood for. He was funny, and together, and light, and kind, and practical, and emotional but contained. But he was also born when I was twenty-one. And if we’d both been born at the same time – how could we know what would have happened? What I did know as I looked at him, was that I didn’t want to ruin Roxster’s life. And my kids were absolutely without a shadow of a doubt the best thing that I had in my life. I didn’t want to deprive him of doing all that for himself.

Crucially, though, I suspected that, even though he wanted to, Roxster just couldn’t do it. He would try, but then sometime in a week, or six weeks, or six months, he would go all uncertain again and keep shorting out. And the thing about reaching the advanced age of, er, thirty-five was that I just didn’t want all that uncertainty and emotional roller coaster and pain any more. I just couldn’t bear it.

Moreover, I did NOT want to be like Judi Dench with Daniel Craig at the end of
Skyfall,
the age difference between whom must be about the same as between me and Roxster. But then, in
Skyfall
, when you think about it, Judi Dench was actually the Bond Girl, not the frizzy-haired one with no character who decided (in a weird anti-feminist twist, surely?) she wanted to be Miss Moneypenny. Judi Dench was the one Daniel Craig really loved, and ended up carrying through the bullets. But then would Daniel Craig actually have had sex with Judi Dench? I mean, if she wasn’t dead? How great if they’d
done a beautifully lit sex scene with Judi Dench looking gorgeous in a black La Perla slip. Now there would be a rebranding feminist . . .

‘Jonesey. Are you pretending not to have an orgasm again?’

I looked back, startled, at Roxster who was now down on one knee. How could I have been so rude as to stare into space for so long when . . . God, he was so, so, so gorgeous, but . . .

‘Roxster,’ I blurted, ‘you don’t really mean all this, do you? You’re not actually going to be able to do it.’

Roxby McDuff looked thoughtful for a moment, then laughed ruefully, got to his feet, and shook his head.

‘No, Jonesey, you’re right. I’m actually not.’

Then we hugged each other, with lust and happiness and sadness and tenderness. But I knew that, this time, the game was up. It really was over.

As we let go, I opened my eyes and over Roxster’s shoulder saw Mr Wallaker, standing stock-still and staring at us.

Mr Wallaker caught my eye, impassive, said nothing, and, in his usual fashion, simply strode away.

On the way home, in the midst of confusion, and sadness, and seller’s remorse, and overheating, and shock at Mr Wallaker seeing what looked like an engagement but was actually a break-up, I felt that overwhelming thing that people feel when . . . that I . . . that once again, at a moment of parting, I hadn’t . . . that you absolutely have to tell people that . . . and simultaneously, spookily, the text pinged.

Roxster:

Me:

Roxster:

Me:

Roxster:

Me:

Roxster:

Me: <2 U>

Roxster:

Me:

Roxster:

Me:

I will always heart you. Me too you. Great Big Hug. (Or possibly Hamburger.)

I waited. Was he going to leave me as the final one in the final thread? There was a ping.

Then another ping.

Roxby McDuff: a gentleman to the last.

GIVING IN

Saturday 13 July 2013 (continued)

When I got home, there was an hour before Mum was due back with the kids. I sat down, finally, in an armchair, with a cup of tea. And I just gave in and accepted it all. It was really over with sweet, lovely Roxster. And I was sad, but so it was. And I couldn’t hold all these balls in the air. I couldn’t rewrite a film about an updated Hedda Gabler on a yacht in Hawaii, moved to Stockholm by six different people. I couldn’t do Internet dating with weird strangers. I couldn’t keep this mad matrix of schedules and Zombie Apocalypses and Build-a-Bear parties in my head, and deal with nearly-confusingly-snogging married teachers at the school, and wear
Grazia-s
tyle clothes and try to have a boyfriend and do a job, and be a mother. I tried to stop myself thinking I should do anything. Check my emails. Go to Zumba. Get on OkCupid. Read the latest insane rewrite of
The Leaves on His Yacht
.

I just sat there and thought, ‘This will just have to do. Me. The kids. Just let the days flow by.’ I didn’t feel sad, really. I couldn’t remember the feeling of not having to do the next thing. Not having to squeeze the last second out of the day. Or find out why the fridge was making that noise.

And I’d love to say something marvellous came out of it. But it didn’t, really. My bum probably got fatter or something. But I sensed a sort of mental clarity emerging. A sense that what I needed to do now was find some peace.

‘I need to be gentle now,’ I thought, blinking rapidly. ‘It’s a gentle time. Never mind anyone else, we’ll just be us – me, Billy and Mabel. Just feel the wind in our hair, and the rain on our faces. Just enjoy them growing up. Don’t miss it. They’ll be gone soon.’

I stared dramatically ahead, thinking, ‘I am brave, though I am alone,’ then realized that the phone was quacking somewhere. Where was it?

Eventually located phone in the downstairs toilet and jumped in alarm, seeing a string of texts from Chloe.