Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

<@JoneseyBJ . . . goddess of joy and light! *Rasps at cab driver* Noooo! Don’t go down f***ing Regent St!>

<@JoneseyBJ *Holds nose, talks in police radio voice* Going into the Dean Street Townhouse. Going INTO the Townhouse.>

<@JoneseyBJ Wish me luck. Over and out. Roger.>

<@JoneseyBJ *Whispers* He’s FANTASTIC.>

<@JoneseyBJ There is a lot to be said for the younger man as long as not young enough to be legal grandson.>

<@JoneseyBJ He’s smiling! He’s stood up like a gentleman.>

Roxster was indeed gorgeous, was even more handsome than his photo but, crucially, merry-looking. He looked as if he was going to burst out laughing all the time. ‘Hellooo.’ Was just about to instinctively reach for my phone to tweet when he put his hand on top of mine on my phone . . .

‘No tweeting.’

‘I haven’t . . .!’ I said insanely.

‘Jonesey, you’ve been twatting or twunking all the way here. I’ve been reading it.’

DATE WITH TOY BOY

Tuesday 22 January 2013 (continued)

I shrank down sheepishly into my coat. Roxster laughed.

‘It’s all right. What would you like to drink?’

‘White wine, please,’ I said sheepishly, instinctively reaching for the phone.

‘Very good. And I’m going to have to confiscate this until you’ve settled down.’

He took my phone, put it in his pocket and summoned the waitress, all in one easy movement.

‘Is that so you can murder me?’ I said, eyeing his pocket with a mixture of arousal and alarm, thinking that if I needed to summon Tom or Talitha I would have to wrestle him to the ground and lunge at it.

‘No. I don’t need the phone to murder you. I just don’t want it being tweeted live to the breathless Twitterati.’

As he turned his head I guzzled the spectacle of the fine lines to his profile: straight nose, cheekbones, brows. His eyes were hazel and twinkly. He was so . . . young. His skin was peachy, his teeth white, his hair thick and shiny, slightly too long to be fashionable, brushing his collar. And his lips had that fine white line outlining them that only young people have.

‘I like your glasses,’ he said as he handed me the wine.

‘Thank you,’ I said smoothly. (They’re progressive glasses so I can see out of them normally and also read. My idea in wearing them was that he wouldn’t notice I was so old that I needed reading glasses.)

‘Can I take them off?’ he said, in a way that made me think he meant . . . clothes.

‘OK,’ I said. He took them off and put them on the bar, brushing my hand slightly, looking at me.

‘You’re much prettier than your photo.’

‘Roxster, my photo is of an egg,’ I said, slurping at the wine, remembering too late that I was supposed to sit back and let him look at me stroking the stem of the wine glass arousingly.

‘I know.’

‘Weren’t you worried I might turn out to be a sixteen-stone cross-dresser?’

‘Yes. I’ve got eight of my mates planted in the bar to protect me.’

‘That’s spooky,’ I said, ‘I’ve got a parade of hit men lined up in all the windows across the street in case you try to murder me and then eat me.’

‘Have they all been fartaged?’

I was just taking a slurp of wine and laughed in the middle, then choked with the wine still in my mouth, and sick started coming up my throat.

‘Are you all right?’

I waved my hand around. My mouth was a mixture of sick and wine. Roxster gave me a handful of paper napkins. I made my way to the loos, holding the napkins over my mouth. Got inside just in time and spurted the sick/wine into the washbasin, wondering if I should add ‘Do not be sick in own mouth at start of date’ to the Dating Rules.

I washed my mouth out, remembering with relief that there was a kid’s toothbrush somewhere at the bottom of my handbag. And some gum.

When I got out Roxster had found us a table and was looking at his phone.

‘I thought I was supposed to be the one who was obsessed with vomit,’ he said, without looking up. ‘I’m just tweeting your followers all about it.’

‘You’re not?’

‘Noooo.’ He handed me back my phone and started laughing. ‘Are you all right?’ He was laughing so much now he could hardly speak. ‘Sorry, I just can’t believe you were sick in your own mouth on our first date.’

In the midst of giggling, I realized he had just said ‘our first date’. And ‘first’ clearly implied that there would be others in spite of sick-in-own-mouth.

‘Are you going to fart next?’ he said, just as the waiter arrived with the menus.

‘Shut up, Roxster,’ I giggled. I mean, honestly, he did have a mental age of seven, but it was fun because it made me feel so at home. And maybe this was someone who wouldn’t be completely appalled by the bodily functions on display in our household.

As we opened the menus, I realized I didn’t have my glasses any more.

I looked at the blurry letters, panicking. Roxster didn’t notice. He seemed completely overexcited by the food. ‘Mmm. Mmm. What are you going to have, Jonesey?’

I stared at him like a rabbit caught in headlights.