Mad About the Boy (Bridget Jones 3)

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 th

e 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:

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.