‘Oh, oh, oh, you’re so hard.’
‘Hard because I want you, baby.’
‘So hard . . .’
‘You make me hard, baby.’
Then, for some reason, I got carried away and gasped, ‘You make ME hard.’
‘What?’ said Roxster, bursting out laughing. We both collapsed in giggles and then we had to start all over again.
Typically, in his cheerful manner, Roxster seemed unworried by the nits, though we both agreed that in order to have Responsible Sex, we must nit-comb each other first. Roxster was so funny, combing my hair, pretending to find and eat the nits, whilst intermittently kissing the back of my neck. When it was my turn to nit-comb Roxster, however, did not want to draw attention to my age by putting on reading glasses, so ended up studiously nit-combing his gorgeous thick hair, without being able to see anything at all. Fortunately Roxster seemed too keen to get it over with and into the bedroom for him to notice my blindness. And was probably fine because of his testosterone. But surely it is not normal to be too vain to put on your reading glasses to nit-comb your toy boy?
11.45 a.m. Right. My script! You see, Hedda Gabbler is really very relevant to the modern woman because it is about the perils of trying to live through men. Why hasn’t Roxster texted me yet? Hope it is not because of the insect incident.
Roxster and I were able, unusually, to have breakfast together today, as Chloe the nanny was taking them to school. Chloe, who has been working for me since just after it happened, is like the improved version of me: younger, thinner, taller, nicer, better at looking after the children, and with an age-appropriate life partner called Graham. Nevertheless, consider it better that Roxster does not meet either Chloe or the children at this stage, so he hides in the bedroom until they have all gone off to school.
Roxster was just happily tucking into his first bowl of muesli, when he spat his mouthful out onto the table. Obviously am used to this sort of thing, though not, admittedly, from Roxster. But then he held out the bowl. The muesli was jumping with tiny insects, flailing and drowning in the milk.
‘Are they nits?’ I said aghast.
‘No,’ he said darkly, ‘weevils.’
Unfortunately my response was to start giggling.
‘Have you any idea what it’s like to put a spoonful of insects in your mouth?’ he said. ‘I could have died. And, more importantly, so could they.’
Then, just as he was tipping the bowl into the correct food recycling bin, he cried, ‘Ants!’ There was a neat line of ants coming from the basement door to the food recycling bin. When he tried to move back the curtain to get rid of them, a small cloud of moths fluttered out.
‘Aaargh! It’s like the Nine Plagues of Egypt in here!’ he said.
And even though he laughed, and gave me a very sexy kiss in the hall, he did not say anything about impending weekend and I have a feeling something is wrong – even if only the combined insult to his three great loves: insects, food and recycling.
Noon. Gaah! Is noon already and have not prepared any of my Thoughts.
12.05 p.m. Still Roxster has not texted. Maybe I should text him? Clearly, in textbook terms, the gentleman should text the lady first after intercourse, but perhaps the whole socio-etiquettical system breaks down when an insect plague is involved.
12.10 p.m. Right. Hedda Gabbler.
12.15 p.m. Just texted: <So sorry about the Nine Plagues of Egypt and for laughing. Will have entire house and occupants fumigated for your next visit. Are you all right?>
12.20 p.m. Right. Excellent. Hedda Gabbler. Roxster has not replied.
12.30 p.m. Roxster has still not replied. This is not like Roxster.
Maybe will check emails. Sometimes Roxster switches electronic mediums just to show off.
Inbox is overrun not only by Ocado, ASOS, Snappy Snaps, Cotswold Holiday Cottages, links to amusing YouTube clips, offers of Mexican viagra, save the dates for Cosmata’s Build-A-Bear party, but also rash of parent mass emails over Atticus’s missing shoes.
Sender:
Nicolette Martinez
Subject:
Atticus’s shoes
Atticus came home wearing Luigi’s shoe but his other shoe is also not his nor is it labelled. I would appreciate the return of both of Atticus’s shoes, both of which were clearly labelled.
12.35 p.m. Decided to join in group exchange to show solidarity and take mind off work.
Sender:
Bridget Billymum
Subject:
Re: Atticus’s shoes
Just to clarify – did Atticus and Luigi go home from swimming just wearing one shoe each?
12.40 p.m. Hee hee, have triggered funny mass email response: jokes about children coming home with no trousers, knickers, etc.
Sender:
Bridget Billymum
Subject:
Billy’s ear
Billy came home from football last night wearing only one ear. Does anyone have Billy’s other ear? It was VERY clearly labelled and I would appreciate its prompt return.
12.45 p.m. Tee hee.
Sender:
Nicolette Martinez
Subject:
Re: Billy’s ear
Some parents appear to think that the boys taking care of their own property and the parents clearly labelling it is a matter for amusement. It is actually important for their development as self-reliant individuals. Perhaps if it was their child’s shoes which were missing they would take a different view.
12.50 p.m. Oh no, oh no. Have offended Class Mother and probably horrified everyone else as well. Will send direct mass apology.
Sender:
Bridget Billymum
Subject:
Atticus’s shoes, Billy’s ears, etc.
I’m sorry, Nicorette. I was trying to write and bored and just joking. Am very bad.
12.55 p.m. Gaaah!
Sender:
Nicolette Martinez
Subject:
Bridget Jones
Bridget – Possibly the misspelling of my name was a Freudian slip. I think we all know you struggle with the occasional smoking lapse. If it was intentional it was hurtful and rude. Perhaps we need to talk all this through with the head of Pastoral Care.
NicoLette
Shit! I called her Nicorette! Look. Don’t dig yourself in further. Just leave it now and concentrate!
1.47 p.m. This is ridiculous! I’m just COMPLETELY blocked.
1.48 p.m. All the class mothers hate me and Roxster has not replied.
1.52 p.m. Slumped at kitchen table.
1.53 p.m. Look. No going over to the dark side. Grazina the Cleaner will be here any second and she can’t see me like this. Will leave a note re insect plague and go to Starbucks.
2.16 p.m. In Starbucks now with ham-and-cheese panini. Right.
3.16 p.m. Huge gaggles of posh mothers with prams have taken cafe over, talking really loudly about their husbands.
3.17 p.m. Is so noisy in here. Hate people who talk on their phones in cafes – ooh, phone, maybe Roxster!
3.30p.m. Was Jude, clearly in meeting, whispering furtively, ‘Bridget. Vile Richard has totally fallen for Isabella.’
‘Who’s Isabella?’ I whispered urgently back.
‘The girl we made up on PlentyofFish. Vile Richard’s fixed to have a date with her tomorrow.’
‘But she isn’t real.’
‘Exactly. She’s me. He’s arranged to meet me, I mean her, at the Shadow Lounge and she’s going to stand him up.’
‘Brilliant,’ I whispered, as Jude said bossily, ‘So just put a stop order of two million yen at a hundred and twenty-five and wait for the quarterly profits.’ Then whispered, ‘And simultaneously, the guy I met on DatingSingleDoctors is meeting me – the actual me – two blocks away at the Soho Hotel.’