Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

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.

‘They’re not here,’ I whispered back.

‘You have two babysitters? And yet you’ve left the children alone?’

‘No,’ I giggled. ‘They’re with their godparents,’ I added, changing Daniel into ‘godparents’ in case Roxster somehow sensed that Daniel is a sexually available man, at least until you get to know him.

‘So we’ve got the house to ourselves!’ Roxster boomed. ‘Can I go and wash the sick off?’

I showed him to the loo halfway up the stairs, then rushed down to the kitchen basement, brushed my hair and put more blusher on, dimming the lights, realizing as I did that Roxster had never actually seen me in daylight.

Suddenly had vision of self as one of those older women who insist on spending their entire time indoors with the curtains drawn, lit only by firelight or candlelight, then completely miss their mouth with the lipstick whenever anyone comes round.

Then I had a terrible moment of guilt and panic about Mark. I felt like I was being unfaithful, like I was about to step off a cliff and like I was far, far away from everything that I knew and everything that was safe. I leaned over the sink, feeling as though I was going to be . . . well . . . fittingly, I suppose . . . sick, then suddenly I heard Roxster bursting out laughing. I turned.

Oh, shit! He was looking at Chloe’s chart.

Chloe had decided that Billy and Mabel would be far better in the mornings if they had a STRUCTURE, and so had drawn up a chart of what is supposed to happen, more or less moment-by-moment, when she takes them to school. This was absolutely fine, except it was ridiculously large, and one of the entries, which Roxster was now reading out, said:

7.55 a.m. to 8 a.m. Hugs and Kisses with Mummy!

‘Do you even know their names?’ he said. Then seeing my face, he laughed and held his hand out for me to smell.

‘They’re perfect,’ I said. ‘Vomit-free. Would you like a glass of . . .?’ but Roxster was already kissing me. He wasn’t rushing at it. He was gentle, almost tender, but in control.

‘Shall we go upstairs?’ he whispered. ‘I want hugs and kisses with Mummy.’

I started off being nervous, wondering if my bum looked fat from behind and below, but realized Roxster was focused, instead, on turning the lights off as we went. ‘Tsk tsk, what about the National Grid, Jonesey?’ Ah, the young people and their concern for the planet!

When I opened the door to the bedroom the room looked beautiful, just lit by the light from the landing and Roxster at least didn’t turn that one off. He stepped inside, pushing the door half closed behind him. He took off his shirt. I gasped. He looked like an advert. He looked like he’d been airbrushed with a six-pack. There was no one in the house, the lights were low, he was good, he was safe, he was gorgeous beyond belief. Then he said, ‘Come here, baby.’





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