Hot Mess_Bridget Jones for a new generation

by Lucy Vine

  He blows his nose. ‘You’re right as always. I should get on Tinder, shouldn’t I? Jackie says you’re on Tinder, is that right, Ellie? How’s it going?’

  I laugh. ‘It’s . . . ’

  I stop. Shit. I’ve forgotten I’ve got a date tonight. Shit. I look a total mess, but – I check the time – we’re meant to be meeting in twenty minutes. I can’t cancel now!

  I take a deep breath. OK, at least this means I don’t have to go home and see Josh.

  ‘I’m sorry, Nick, I’ve got to run. You’ve just reminded me, I’ve got a date tonight, actually.’

  ‘Good for you, Ellie! Never give up. You’ll find someone eventually!’

  I jump up, trying not to roll my eyes, and rush to the loos. It’s going to take all my best trowelling efforts to cover these puffy eyes.

  As I totter towards the bar we’re meeting in, I breathe a sigh of relief that I suggested somewhere so close. I’d never have made it if I had to travel across town. He’s just texted saying he’s there and what do I want to drink. But I’m here now, and I head in and up to the bar.

  ‘Hello,’ he says, kissing me on the cheek and smiling widely.

  I smile back, it’s nice to see him again.

  ‘Hi, Nathan,’ I say, shyly.

  On my way to Dad’s on Saturday, in a fit of pique at Sophie and Thomas and Josh and the world, I finally texted Nathan back. He replied straightaway, and then we ended up speaking on the phone for ages. He said sorry again for his tantrum text and we talked about everything. Silly stuff, serious stuff. He told me about his ex and how they’d been engaged, and how she ended it out of nowhere and moved out of the country. I told him about my mum and how tough that all was. He said sorry again about the way he’d acted at the end of our first date, and sorry again about his brush off text. He asked if I’d be willing to give him another shot at a date.

  So here we are.

  He’s just as handsome and sweet as I remember, and as he hands me a wine, we quickly fall back into the easy back and forth rhythmic conversation we had on our first date.

  But, fun and handsome as he is, I just can’t focus. My mind keeps dragging me back to everything that’s been going on lately, and I can hardly focus on what he’s saying. I’m still too sad. As I try to fake some enthusiasm, I realise all my stupid, silly stories are about times I’ve shared with my friends. And when he asks me how Sophie is – the best friend I’d talked so much about on our last date – I feel myself well up.

  Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry.

  At least don’t cry in front of a stranger, you unbelievable loser.

  Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry.

  Oh great, you’re crying. I can’t believe you’re crying. This is so embarrassing.

  Nathan looks horrified and a couple of other people nearby look at him accusingly as tears start rolling down my cheeks.

  ‘Sorry, I’m sorry,’ I say, starting to stand up. ‘I can’t be here tonight, I’m so sorry. I’m going to leave, please don’t hate me.’

  ‘No, don’t leave!’ he says, alarmed and standing up too. ‘Or at least tell me if it’s something I can help with? I’m so sorry I made you cry.’

  ‘It’s not you, it wasn’t you,’ I say, the tears still coming. I think there’s snot too. Christ. ‘I’m just having a really bad week and I need to go home. I’m really sorry, Nathan. You’re lovely.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says, nodding kindly and helping me with my coat. ‘Can I at least get you a taxi home? Let me order it for you now.’

  I let him, knowing I’ve totally blown anything that could’ve been between us.

  He gives me a hug as he puts me in a taxi and I watch him from the rear view mirror, watching me, as we drive away. I won’t hear from him again. Or maybe – ha! – maybe I’ll get another of his ‘we’re not compatible’ texts. Which, I have to admit, would be fair enough. After all, I am leaving our second date in tears after only thirty minutes. I look at my messy, mascara-stained face in the mirror. What a catch.

  The taxi drops me off and I pause on my front doorstep. The house seems quiet and empty inside, the windows are dark. But TS is always dark. Please, please, let Josh not be home. He’s probably got a date, I think as I quietly let myself in, and feel a pang of something. Jealousy? Loss? Relief? I can’t identify it. Everything is still and silent in the house as I move quietly up to my room. But as I turn my door handle, someone says ‘Boo’ and I scream my head off.

  Fucking Josh.

  He’s just come out of the bathroom and he’s grinning at me, naked apart from a towel, hair slicked back from the shower.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, still grinning and very much not sorry. ‘We have to stop meeting like this,’ he adds, gesturing at his towel.

  ‘You scared the shit out of me,’ I say, breathing hard. I make careful eye contact with him, refusing to look down and knowing his abs are winking at me, daring me to objectify him.

  ‘Where have you been these last few days? Have you been deliberately avoiding me?’ he asks, in a wounded voice, leaning casually against the doorframe of the bathroom.

  I shake my head. ‘Er, no, of course not. Just . . . busy busy. You know how it is.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ he says, nodding. ‘You career gals – always moving, right?’

  He’s teasing me again and I feel myself tense up.

  ‘So . . . ’ I say, casually, nodding at my door to indicate I’m going in.

  ‘You want me to come in?’ he says, innocently.

  ‘No, no!’ I say a little too quickly, and he looks faux-injured again. ‘I just meant, I’ll probably head into my room now. Leave you to get, um, dressed?’

  ‘I’m not in any hurry,’ he says, smirking and not moving. ‘Shall we have a drink?’

  ‘God no,’ I say. ‘I’m still hungover from Friday night. That was such a mistake . . . ’ I trail off. I did mean the drinking, but the implication hangs in the air.

  Disappointment darkens his face, and he stands up straighter, rallying.

  ‘You don’t want to do it again then?’ he says, cheekily.

  I force a laugh. ‘Probably not! I wouldn’t want all that . . . drinking to overcomplicate the situation here, with us living together.’

  He nods, and bites his lip. I have a flashback of Friday. Him biting my lip.

  I laugh awkwardly again and reach for my door, ready to say goodnight.

  ‘Wait, Ellie.’ He looks a little flushed. ‘Look, don’t go yet. Can we just talk a little bit more?’

  What else is there to say? I hover, uncertainly. He takes a step towards me and I swallow hard. I’m very, very aware of the wet towel.

  He touches my arm, and for a moment, he looks intensely vulnerable. ‘Ellie, I . . . I like you. I know you think what happened the other night was just a drunken thing, but I’ve liked you for ages. I was so happy about all the sex – it was amazing – and I was so gutted when I woke up on Saturday and you were gone.’

  WHERE THE FUCK IS THIS COMING FROM?

  I’m frozen, watching his face move. He keeps talking, his words are coming faster and faster.

  ‘I meant what I said on Friday, I liked you from the moment you turned up here. You’re smart and funny and so easily annoyed. You challenge me. And you’re, like, so beautiful. God, Ellie, I really like you. I want you to like me, and I know I’ve been an arsehole, parading girls around here, trying to make you jealous. Winding you up whenever I could. I didn’t know how else to get you to notice me.’

  He’s closer now, and I can smell the toothpaste on his breath and the smell of Radox on his skin.

  ‘Ellie, I want us to try—’

  I interrupt him, pulling away and stepping back. ‘Josh, I can’t handle this right now,’ I say, panicked. ‘I didn’t have any idea you felt like this. I had no clue. I don’t know what to think. I thought Friday was . . . ’ I trail off. I thought Friday was meaningless.

  There’s a pause. ‘Do you at leas
t like me a bit?’ he says quietly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say honestly.

  ‘Is it Thomas?’ he asks, his voice still low. ‘Are you in love with him?’

  ‘What? No!’ I reply, and then I add, ‘God, maybe. I don’t know. How does anyone know these things? How is this stuff so easy for everyone else?’

  He smiles at me. ‘I want you to give me a chance,’ he says, taking my hands again. ‘I think you’re amazing, and I really like you. I haven’t felt like this in years.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s not just the oxytocin?’ I say and he cocks his head at me, perplexed.

  ‘Never mind,’ I hastily add.

  ‘Just think about it?’ he says again, plaintively.

  I nod dumbly, and we stand there looking at each other for a minute.

  I’m so shocked. He’s so beautiful. This beautiful man wants me, he likes me, he wants to be with me, and I can’t think straight.

  ‘Can I have a bit of time with this?’ I finally say, breaking the silence.

  He takes a deep breath, looking at me searchingly. ‘Of course.’ He reaches for my face and my breath gets short. He’s going to kiss me he’s going to kiss me he’s going to kiss me he’s going to –

  He leaves.

  I go into my room and lie on the floor. And then I get up and I start to paint.

  14

  12.27 p.m. Friday, 5 April in the U.K., or 4.27 a.m. Saturday, 6 April in L.A. – I guess we’re somewhere in between that? Oh wait, now it’s 12.28 p.m.

  Location: A swanky BA flight, feeling a bit lost in time, but like a total badass with a tray table covered in BA-branded items. That includes an immaculately presented miniature portion of mackerel on a bed of elegantly presented salad, seven unnecessary napkins, two tiny, empty bottles of white wine, and a plastic cup with the letters ‘BA’ engraved on the bottom. So swish.

  I’m halfway through Ella Enchanted. Have you seen this film? Goddamn, it’s great. Why does everyone complain about Anne Hathaway? She’s amazing! Look at her, under that spell, being completely adorable opposite the young Hugh Dancy. Life should be more like this. I should wear more dresses, have more adventures, cast more spells.

  There’s something about watching a film on a tiny plane screen, with your own personal freebie headphones, that feels extra special, don’t you think? It’s the same feeling as when you have a DVD you’ve seen five thousand times, but then it comes on telly and you cannot believe your luck. Or it’s like the way food tastes so much better when someone else has cooked it. Or like that free latte from Pret that you only had to flirt with the barista every day for a month to get. Worth it.

  I inhale the plane air deeply and feel the tension of the last few weeks ooze slowly out of me. I feel good for the first time in ages. Well, good-ish. And with every passing hour that takes me further and further away from the U.K., I feel more like myself. This was a great decision. Getting away from London, running away from my problems, spending a huge amount on my credit card for a flight leaving the next morning. And most of all, paying so much extra to fly with BA just because I knew it would make me feel cooler at the check-in desk, next to the sweaty, already-tired-looking EasyJetters. You’ve got to get your superiority buzzes wherever you can.

  Glancing around, I make eye contact with the beautiful, immaculate air steward again and she rushes over to ask in a hushed voice if I need another tiny bottle of wine. Yes, of course I fucking do, lady. Look at them, they’re so cute!

  The last few days have remained DEFCON level utter shit. Still no word from Sophie or Thomas, and at home, Josh has been ignoring my request for time to think. Every evening after work, I’ve come home to him sitting on the sofa, studiously casual, definitely not waiting for me, not at all. There’s been that crushing guilt when I’ve made immediate excuses to head to my room and he’s looked at me like I’m stamping his penis under stiletto’d feet. Then yesterday I got back and found him standing by the door with flowers, wine and the karaoke waiting to go. As if he thinks recreating the circumstances of last week would make me realise how much I wanted to be in a relationship with him. In a relationship with a serial philanderer who has a set of dazzling abs that I could never be fully naked around. Like, even alone, I wouldn’t be able to be naked, knowing my boyfriend looked like that under his clothes. I would genuinely have to start wearing Spanx in the shower.

  And, Jesus, flowers? I understand people like flowers – they’re pretty, I get it. But they are kind of literally everywhere in real life. Being given flowers is the present equivalent of saying, ‘I have no clue what you like, but you’re a girl, so you’re bound to be pleased with some pretty roses I got from Interflora with a twenty-five per cent discount code.’ You have to say thank you so much, then spend fifteen minutes of your hard-earned evening time cutting stems and arranging the flowers you didn’t want in the first place into a pint glass because who owns vases? And then you spend the next few days watching them die. If you’re really lucky, you’ll forget about them altogether, and by the time you remember they exist two weeks later, they will smell really bad and you’ll throw up coffee in your mouth, dispose of the water and have to go out to the big bins round the back to get rid of the rotting remains, wearing your slippers and you’ll step in dog mess.

  Tim used to buy me flowers a lot. Ugh.

  Obviously I’m being a total bitch and I’m really sorry for it. But I’m angry. I’m angry about my life, and I’m angry that Josh won’t leave me alone to think. And there’s just too much stuff in my head right now to properly consider what he’s offering.

  The air steward comes back with two more wines and winks at me conspiratorially. The guy next to me grunts in his sleep ‘Please Pam!’ and we giggle a bit across him.

  OK, I do like Josh. I will say those words. I know myself well enough to admit that. I like him, I fancy him. He challenges me, he makes me think, and he makes me laugh. He’s probably riddled with STDs, but you can’t have everything. And I could live with herpes, couldn’t I? It’s mostly dormant, right?

  What exactly is the problem then? Why am I hesitating? I guess a small part of me worries that I would never feel totally secure and happy with him. I’ve seen him treat too many women like nothing to believe he could ever be fully mine.

  But maybe that’s just because I’ve come to know the wrong version of him. He said he’d been acting like that because he wanted me to notice him. It’s not exactly a mature approach but maybe it’s flattering? And this last week there’s been a totally unknown, previously unheard of Josh. Lovely, sweet, considerate Josh. He even picked up all his almost empty Radox bottles out of the shower and threw them away. It nearly made me love him.

  Oh, I just don’t know.

  Honestly, I need to work out what to do about Sophie and Thomas before I can figure out what to do about Josh. So, well, what am I going to do about them? I don’t know why I haven’t been in touch to say sorry. I don’t know why they haven’t.

  Maybe it won’t matter. Maybe this trip will be so amazing, I’ll decide I have to move over there. I’ll find new, tanned versions of my old friends.

  On the tiny screen, Anne Hathaway adorably bites her lip and sweetly trips over. She giggles and everyone swoons.

  I will never be cute like that.

  Actually, yeah, that’s why everyone hates her.

  Several hours and several more tiny bottles of wine later, I arrive at the giant gates of Jen’s, er – would we call it an estate? What constitutes an estate? It’s pretty vast, and I can’t see round the side of it. That’s an estate in my book. As I buzz the intercom for entry, I wonder for a minute whether Jen will even let me in.

  I didn’t tell her I was coming until I landed a couple of hours ago. I told myself I wanted to surprise her, but maybe I also didn’t want to give her a chance to tell me not to come. Because I had to come. Either way, the text I’d fired off, as I climbed into a cab, sweaty and overwhelmed by everyone’s languid accent, had not been well re
ceived. Jen replied swiftly, and each of her well-chosen single-syllable words were annoyed. She said she was too busy to look after a fucking tourist; that the house was a mess; that Andrew would be angry about having an unexpected guest; that it wasn’t OK for Milly to have her routine disrupted on my whims. She said I was selfish and that I could go find a ‘sodding hostel’ and come round one afternoon for tea, if I had to. I got back out of my cab, crestfallen, and almost ready to book an immediate flight back again. As I was debating my options, Jen texted again, more conciliatory, and relented about me coming to stay. Yes, fine, come, she’d said, but don’t expect to be waited on, hand and foot. As if I ever pictured her doing that.

  Her muffled voice crackles over the intercom now and the gates start to creak open. Jen’s already waiting at the door, wearing her most-terribly-inconvenienced face. She looks angry, but it’s more than that, she looks . . . bad. She is so thin, she’s lost a lot of weight since I last saw her. They say the camera adds ten pounds, so a camera phone must clearly add at least a stone. I’ve never seen her this small before. It’s all I can see – her thinness – and it makes her look so vulnerable. I study her drawn face; it is all angry features and lines in odd places – the bits missed by the de rigeur Botox.

  ‘Hello,’ she says coolly, opening the door a little wider and not offering to help with my bag.

  ‘I’m so sorry about this,’ I say again, awkwardly, as I lurch inside, heaving my bag over the threshold.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she says, avoiding my eyes.

  ‘Please don’t be angry with me,’ I plead, setting it down and touching Jen’s arm, gingerly. ‘I was having a shit week. I just wanted to escape. I wanted to see you and Milly. I miss you. I used up the entire balance of my emergency credit card to get here! I’ll be paying it off for the next seventeen years.’

  She looks at me properly and reluctantly half smiles. I think my penalty is over.