Mad About the Boy (Bridget Jones 3)

‘I’m not!’

‘So stop squabbling, and dish.’

I told him the whole story about Roxster. Well, not the whole, whole story: edited highlights.

‘How old was he exactly?’

‘Twenty-nine. Well, no, he was thirty by the time—’

‘Oh, well, in that case –’ his eyes were crinkling at the corners – ‘he’s practically a sugar daddy.’

‘So you’ve been single all this time?’

‘Well, I’m not saying I’ve been living the life of a monk . . .’

He swirled the Scotch around in his glass. Oh God, those eyes.

‘But the thing is, you see –’ he leaned forward confidentially – ‘you can’t go out with someone else, can you? When you’re in lo—’

‘Mr Wallaker!’ It was Anzhelika Sans Souci. She looked at us, mouth open. ‘Sorry!’ she said and disappeared.

I was staring at him, trying to believe what he’d seemed to be about to say.

‘OK, enough school mums?’ he said. ‘If I take you home will you dance to “Killer Queen”?’

I was still in a daze as we made our way through the parents and the compliments – ‘Magnificent performances’, ‘Overwhelmingly accomplished’, ‘Fiercely impressive.’ As we were heading out of the pub door, we saw Valerie. ‘Have a good night, you two,’ she said, with a twinkle.

Outside it was still snowing. I glanced, lustfully, at Mr Wallaker. He was so tall, so gorgeous: the ruggedly handsome jaw above the scarf, the slight glimpse of hairy chest below his shirt collar, the long legs in his dark—

‘Shit! The bassoon.’ I for some reason suddenly remembered, and started heading back in.

He stopped me, again, with a gentle hand on my arm: ‘I’ll get it.’

I waited, breathless, feeling the snow on my cheeks, then he reappeared, with the bassoon and the plastic bag of sausages.

‘Your sausages,’ he said, handing them to me.

‘Yes! Sausages! Good King Wenceslas! The butcher!’ I gabbled nervously.

We were standing very close.

‘Look!’ he said, pointing above. ‘Isn’t that mistletoe?’

‘I think you’ll find it’s an elm with no leaves,’ I continued to gabble without looking up. ‘I mean, it probably just looks like mistletoe because of the snow and—’

‘Bridget.’ He reached out and gently traced my cheekbone with his finger, the cool blue eyes burning into mine, teasing, tender, hungry. ‘This isn’t a biology lesson.’ He raised my mouth to his and kissed me once, lightly, then again, more urgently, and added, ‘. . . yet.’

Oh God. He was so masterful, he was such a MAN! And then we were kissing properly and it felt, once more, like everything was going crazy inside me, flashes and pulses, and like I was driving a super-fast car in a pair of stilettos again, but this time it was all right because the person actually at the wheel was . . .

‘Mr Wallaker,’ I gasped.

‘So sorry,’ he murmured. ‘Did I catch you with the bassoon?’

We both agreed we should take the bassoon safely back to his place, which was a huge flat in one of the lanes off the high street. It had old wooden floors and a blazing fire with a fur hearthrug and candles, and the smell of cooking. A small, smiling Filipino lady was bustling around the kitchen area.

‘Martha!’ he said. ‘Thank you. It looks wonderful. You can go now. Thank you.’

‘Ooh, Mr Wallaker’s in a hurry.’ She smiled. ‘I’m on my way. How the concert go?’