Mad About the Boy (Bridget Jones 3)

‘Of course you must meet @_Roxster, as long as it’s in a public space. Talitha says he’s fine. We’ll all be on the end of the phone. And it’s perfectly normal and healthy to meet in cyberspace.’

Love the way Tom and I swap positions at being the expert on dating mores as if on a seesaw – even though clearly neither of us has any idea what we are talking about in the first place. Sometimes it seems like just a sea of humanity out there with millions of seesaws all going on at the same time like nodding-donkeys. And everyone’s on one end or other of the seesaw at different times.

11 p.m. Heaven is rewarding me today. Roxster just tweeted again.

Aww. He’s been thinking about it. He’s so gorgeous and nice. Tweeted back:

Tuesday 22 January 2013

133lb (still!), number of outfits tried on and thrown on floor 12, tweets sent when supposed to be getting ready 7 (very stupid), though Twitter followers 698 (advantages of live-action tweeting must be weighed against disadvantages of lateness).

6.30 p.m. Right. Almost ready. Talitha, Jude and Tom are primed about where I am going and standing by to rescue me in case anything goes wrong. Determined not to make same mistake this time and be late. Only thing is, cannot help self from tweeting as I get ready. Is almost as if I have duty to all followers to let them know what I’m doing all the time.

Wow – lots of responses and @ mentions:

Humph. Right. We’ll see about him.

6.45 p.m. Shit shit, have put waterproof mascara on lips as same Laura Mercier packaging as lip gloss and will not come off. Oh God. Am going to be late with black lips.

7.15 p.m. OK. In minicab now, still rubbing at lips. Have time for a few more tweets.

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.’