Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

And then the house was empty. I cleared all the soft toys and plastic dinosaurs and embarrassing self-help books out of my bedroom, then started on de-childing the living room, but gave up as too monumental a task, and also am not going to sleep with him anyway. Then I ran a hot bath and put sweet-smelling potions in and music on, reminding self that the most important thing was to a) be in a calm yet sexual mood (which wasn’t a problem) and b) turn up in the right place at the right time.

SECOND DATE WITH TOY BOY

Friday 1 February 2013 (continued)

I have literally no idea what goes on in Les Misérables and really must watch it again sometime. I hear it’s terribly good. All I could think about was how horny I felt with Roxster’s knee so close to mine. His hand was on his left thigh, and I kept my hand on my right thigh so that it would only have been a matter of inches for his hand to touch mine. Was incredibly arousing, wondering if he was feeling as aroused as me, but not being quite certain. Suddenly, after quite a long time, Roxster reached across and casually put his hand on my right thigh, his thumb moving the silk of the navy-blue dress across my bare leg. It was a highly effective move, and not one which was, I thought, open to misinterpretation.

As people continued to throw themselves into weirs and die of bad haircuts to song on the big screen, I glanced across at Roxster. He was looking calmly at the screen, only a slight flicker in his eyes betraying the fact that anything but operatic-misery-watching was going on. Then he leaned across and whispered:

‘Shall we go?’

Once outside we started kissing frantically, then pulled ourselves together and decided we should at least go to a restaurant. The magic of Roxster was that, even in the din of a succession of insanely noisy Soho restaurants with no free tables, he was such fun to talk to. Eventually, after many drinks, and much talking and laughing, we ended up in the restaurant he had booked in the first place for after the movie.

During the meal, he took hold of my hand and slid his thumb between my fingers. I in turn wrapped my fingers around his thumb and stroked it up and down in a manner which just stopped on the right side of the line of being an advertisement for a handjob. Throughout, neither of us gave any hint in our conversation that we were anything other than the jolliest of chums. It was wildly sexy. Went to the loos as we left and called Talitha.

‘If it feels right, darling, go for it. Any red flags, call me. I’m on the end of the phone.’

When we got outside – Soho again, but Friday night this time, so seriously no taxis – he said, ‘How are you going to get home? The tubes have stopped.’

I reeled. After all the preparation, and the thumb stroking, and calling friends, we actually were just jolly friends. This was terrible.

‘Jonesey,’ he grinned. ‘Have you ever been on a night bus? I think I’m going to have to see you home.’

On the night bus, I felt as though parts of other people were going into parts of me I didn’t even know existed. I felt like I was being more intimate with members of the night-bus community than I’d ever been with anyone in my whole life. Roxster, however, looked worried, like the night bus was his fault.

‘OK?’ he mouthed.

I nodded cheerfully, wishing I was squeezed up against Roxster instead of the weird woman with whom I was practically having the sort of lesbian car-wash sex explored in Daniel’s magazine.

The bus stopped and people started getting off. Roxster muscled through to an empty seat, and sat down, in a way which seemed uncharacteristically ungallant. Then, when everyone had settled down, he got up and installed me in his place. I smiled up at him, proud at how handsome and beefy he was, but saw him looking down with a horrified expression. A woman was silently retching onto my boot.

Roxster was now trying to control his laughter. It was our stop, and, as we got off, he put his arm round me.

‘A night without vomit is a night without Jonesey,’ he said. ‘Hang on.’ He strode into the late-night supermarket and reappeared with a bottle of Evian, a newspaper and a handful of paper napkins.

‘I’m going to have to start carrying these with me. Stand still.’

He poured the water over my boot and knelt down and wiped off the sick. It was terribly romantic.

‘Now I smell of sick,’ he said ruefully.

‘We can wash it off at home,’ I said, heart leaping that there was a reason for him to come in, even if it was vomit.

As we got close to the house I could see him looking all around, trying to place where we were, and what sort of place I lived in. I was so nervous when we got to the door. My hands were shaking as I put the key in the lock and couldn’t get it to open.

‘Let me do it,’ he said.

‘Come in,’ I said, in an absurdly formal voice, as if I was a 1970s cocktail hostess.

‘Shall I go somewhere till the babysitter goes?’ he whispered.