Mad About the Boy

by Helen Fielding

  ‘Yes,’ said Woney conspiratorially. ‘Binko Carruthers.’

  They nodded in the direction of Binko, who was looking around with his usual deranged expression, wild hair and plump body erupting at various points from, horrifyingly, instead of his usual crumpled suit, a pair of aquamarine flares and a psychedelic shirt with a frill down the front.

  ‘He thought it said sixties birthday party, not sixtieth,’ giggled Woney.

  ‘He said he’d be willing to take a look at you,’ said Cosmo. ‘Better get in quick, before he’s hoovered up by desperate divorcees.’

  ‘Here you go, baby.’ Roxster appeared at my side, holding two large flutes of champagne in one hand.

  ‘This is Roxby McDuff,’ I said. ‘Roxby, this is Cosmo and Woney.’

  There was a corresponding flicker in Roxster’s hazel eyes at the names, as he handed me my glass.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said cheerfully, raising his glass to Cosmo and Woney.

  ‘Is this your nephew?’ said Cosmo.

  ‘No,’ said Roxster, pointedly putting his arm round my waist. ‘That would be a very odd relationship.’

  Cosmo looked as though the rug of his entire socio-sexual world view had been pulled from under him. His face was like a fruit machine with different ideas and emotions whizzing past, failing to find a final combination to rest on.

  ‘Well,’ Cosmo said finally. ‘She’s certainly looking blooming.’

  ‘I can see why,’ said Woney, staring at the muscled forearm round my waist.

  Just then Tom came up overeagerly. ‘Is this Roxster? Hi. I’m Tom. Happy birthday. ’Adding, to Cosmo and Woney, ‘It’s his thirtieth today! Ooh, there’s Arkis, must run.’

  ‘Later, Tom,’ said Roxster. ‘I’m ravenous. Shall we get some food, honey?’

  As we turned, he slid his hand to my bum, and kept it there as we walked towards the buffet.

  Tom glided up again, now with Arkis in tow – who was every bit as handsome as his Scruff app photos. I grinned gleefully.

  ‘I know, I know. I saw,’ said Tom. ‘You look revoltingly smug.’

  ‘It’s been so terribly hard,’ I said in a quavering voice. ‘Don’t I deserve a little happiness?’

  ‘Just don’t get too smug,’ he said. ‘Pride comes before a fall.’

  ‘You neither,’ I said, nodding at Arkis. ‘Chapeau.’

  ‘Let’s just enjoy, eh?’ said Tom, and we clinked glasses.

  It was one of those heady evenings: languid, humid, sunlight still dappling on the pool. People were laughing, drinking and lying on mattresses, sucking on chocolate-coated strawberries. I was with Roxster, Tom was with Arkis, Jude was on her third date with, now, a wildlife photographer from Guardian Soulmates, who actually looked nice and not at all like he wanted to wee on her, and Talitha was looking stunning, in a floor-length one-shoulder peach gown, carrying a little dog – which Tom thought was an absurd touch – and trailed by her doting Silver Fox Russian billionaire. She joined us as Tom, Jude and I stood by the pool with our respective amours. Tom attempted to pat Talitha’s little chihuahua. ‘Did you get it from Net-a-Porter, darling?’ At which it tried to bite him.

  ‘She’s a present from Sergei,’ breathed Talitha. ‘Petula! Isn’t she adorable? Aren’t you adorable, darling? Aren’t you, aren’t you, aren’t you? You must be Roxster. Happy birthday.’

  ‘Happy birthday to both of you,’ I said, feeling tearful. There we were: the nucleus of Dating Centrale, the command centre of our emotional struggles, all, for once, happy and partnered up.

  ‘It’s a fantastic party,’ said Roxster, beaming, excited through a combination of food, champagne, Red Bull and vodka cocktails. ‘It’s literally the best party I’ve ever, ever been to in my entire life. Literally, I’ve never been to a better party ever, ever. It’s an absolutely brilliant party, and the food is—’

  Talitha touched his lip with one finger. ‘You’re adorable,’ she said. ‘I demand the first dance for our birthday.’

  One of the black-suited party planners was hovering in the background. He touched Talitha’s arm and whispered something.

  ‘Will you have her a minute, darling?’ she said, holding out the little dog to me. ‘I must just talk to the band.’

  I’ve never really been sure about dogs, ever since I was rushed by Una and Geoffrey’s miniature labradoodle when I was six. Also, what about those pit bulls, which just ate a teenager? Somehow this anxiety must have communicated itself to Talitha’s chihuahua, because, as I took hold of her, she barked, nipped my hand and leaped out of my arms. I stared, aghast, as she flew through the air, wriggling, light as a feather, up, up, then down, down, into the swimming pool, where she disappeared.

  There was a split second of silence, then Talitha shrieked, ‘Bridget! What are you doing? She can’t swim!’

  Everyone stared as the little dog foundered to the surface in the middle of the pool, yapping, then disappeared under the water again. Suddenly, Roxster pulled his T-shirt over his shoulders, revealing his ripped torso. He dived straight into the pool, an arc of blue water, spray and muscle, then resurfaced, wet and glistening, at the other end of the pool having completely missed the dog, which took a last gulp of air, then sank. Roxster looked confused for a moment, then dived back under the water and emerged, holding a whimpering Petula. White teeth flashing in a grin, Roxster placed the little dog gently at Talitha’s feet, put his hands on the edge of the pool, and hauled himself effortlessly out of the water.

  ‘Jonesey,’ said Roxster. ‘We don’t throw dogs.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Tom. ‘Oh. My. God.’

  Talitha was fussing over Petula. ‘My darling. My poor darling. You’re all right now, you’re all right.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘She just jumped right out of my—’

  ‘Don’t apologize,’ said Tom, still staring at my boyfriend.

  ‘Oh, my darling.’ Talitha was turning her attention to Roxster now. ‘My poor, brave darling. Let me help you out of those wet things—’

  ‘Don’t you dare re-dress him,’ growled Tom.

  ‘Actually, I think I need another Red Bull,’ grinned Roxster. ‘With a vodka.’

  Talitha started dragging him off through the crowd, but he grabbed my hand and pulled me with him. The face that stayed with me from the sea of open mouths was Woney’s.

  Ushering Roxster into the house, Talitha turned to me and murmured, ‘Now that, my darling, is what I call rebranding.’

  More smartly dressed now, in one of the Silver Fox’s immaculate outfits, Roxster seemed oblivious to his rebranding role, and more interested in the celebrities he could spot in the crowd, most of whom I’d never heard of. Darkness was falling, lanterns were giving a soft, twinkling glow, the guests were getting drunker, the band was playing, people were starting to dance. I was – though smug – worried that there was something slightly wrong about using Roxster to rebrand: though I hadn’t deliberately used him, it had just happened. In fact, to tell the truth, I was actually falling helplessly in . . .

  ‘Come on, let’s dance, baby,’ said Roxster. ‘Let’s do it.’

  He grabbed another vodka cocktail, a beer and a Red Bull, knocked them down, and asked for refills. Roxster was wild, he was exuberant. Roxster was, let’s face it, rapidly becoming paralytic.

  He bounded onto the dance floor, where everyone was doing generationally appropriate hip-shaking and jigging, some women standing with their legs apart and moving their shoulders provocatively. I had never actually seen Roxster dance before. The band was playing a Supertramp hit and I stared at him in astonishment, as a space cleared around him, and I realized that his chosen dance style was pointing. He knew all the words to Supertramp, he was singing along, strutting like John Travolta, pointing in every direction and then, right on cue, just before the instrumental break, pointing at the stage as if conducting the band. Noticing me jigging uncertainly on the spot, he grabbed my hand and gave me his drink, gesturing eagerly fo
r me to down it. I glugged it in one, and joined in the pointing, giving in to the fact that Roxster was going to whirl me round unsteadily, bear-hug me, knock me over and fondle my bum, then point, with everyone watching. What was not to like?

  Later I stumbled, feet clearly needing a bunion operation, off to the loo, and returned to find the dance floor empty – I thought. Except that Jude was standing, clearly out-of-her mind drunk, staring at the dance floor and smiling fondly. Roxster was dancing happily on his own, a Kronenbourg in one hand now, pointing cheerfully with the other.

  ‘That was the best night of my entire life,’ he said to Talitha as we left, taking her hand and kissing it. ‘Literally the best food ever, ever, ever! And the party, of course. It was the best, you’re the best . . .’

  ‘I’m so glad you came. Thank you for saving my dog,’ breathed Talitha, like a gracious duchess. ‘Hope he’s still up to it, darling,’ she murmured in my ear.

  Once out in the street, and away from the departing guests, Roxster stopped in the lamplight and held both my hands, grinning, then kissed me.

  ‘Jonesey,’ he whispered, looking into my eyes. ‘I . . .’ He turned away and did a little dance. He was so drunk. He turned back and looked sad for a moment, then happy, then burst out, ‘I heart you. I’ve never said this to a woman before. I wish I had a time machine. I heart you.’

  If there is a God, I’m sure He has more to deal with, what with the Middle East crisis and everything, than giving tragic widows perfect nights of sex, but it did feel as though God had taken His mind off His other troubles that night.

  The next morning, when Roxster had gone off to his rugby match and the children had been deposited at their respective magic and football parties, I climbed back into bed for an hour, savouring moments from the night before: Roxster emerging from the pool, Roxster in the lamplight, happy, saying, ‘I heart you.’

  Sometimes, though, when a lot of things happen all at once your mind gets confused and you can only dissect all the bits of information later.

  ‘I wish I had a time machine.’

  It bubbled up through all the other words and images from the night before. The split second of sadness in his eyes, before he said, ‘I heart you . . . I wish I had a time machine.’

  It was the first time he had ever mentioned the age difference, apart from jokes about my knees and teeth. We had been caught up in the excitement, the exuberance of realizing that, in the flotsam and jetsam of cyberspace, we’d both found someone we really liked, and it wasn’t just a one-night stand, or a three-night stand, it was a real connection full of affection and fun. But in his moment of inebriated joy he had given himself away. It mattered to him, and with that came the elephant in the room.

  PART THREE

  HORRIBLE NO-GOOD VERY BAD DAY

  Tuesday 4 June 2013

  134lb, calories 5822, jobs 0, toy boys 0, respect from production company 0, respect from schools 0, respect from nanny 0, respect from children 0, entire bags of cheese eaten 2, entire packets of oatmeal cookies eaten 1, entire large vegetables eaten 1 (a cabbage).

  9 a.m. Mmm. Another highly erotic night with Roxster. Though at the same time, feel lurch of unease. Billy and Mabel weren’t quite asleep when he arrived, and they came downstairs crying, because Billy said Mabel had thrown Saliva and ‘blinded’ him in one eye. Took ages to get them back to sleep.

  When I came down again, Roxster, not realizing I was there, looked a bit pissed off.

  I said, ‘Sorry!’ and he looked up and laughed in his usual merry way and said, ‘It just wasn’t how I imagined I was going to be spending the evening.’

  Anyway, once the food was on the go he was back to normal. And it was dreamy. The bathroom chair and mirror really came into their own. And the mini-break is next weekend! We are going to find a pub in the country and go hiking and shagging and eating and everything! Chloe has done the school run so can get early start on Leaves – which is starting to look less like an impossible dream and more like a fantastic reality – a movie, written by me, starring Ambergris Bilk! So everything’s fine. Definitely. Must just get on with rewriting it.

  9.15 a.m. Mmmmm. Keep getting flashbacks to last night in the bathroom.

  9.25 a.m. Just sent Roxster text saying:

  9.45 a.m. Only thing is, why hasn’t he replied? ‘I wish I had a time machine.’ Oh God, why do I have all these images of myself that I immediately go to – like I’m a stalker, or a tragic deluded grandmother waddling around a discotheque in leggings and a sleeveless top with flappy arms, frizzy hair, a sticking-out stomach and a novelty tiara.

  9.47 a.m. Right. Have got to pull self together, get up and get on. Cannot be floating around in lingerie having some completely unnecessary push-me-pull-you inner dialogue about why toy boy hasn’t responded to text, when have screenplay to write and children to take responsibility and schedule things for.

  But why hasn’t he texted back?

  9.50 a.m. Will check email.

  9.55 a.m. Nothing. Just a forwarded email from George from Greenlight. Maybe something nice?

  10 a.m. OMG. Just opened the forwarded email and detonated a bomb.

  FWD: Sender:

  Ambergris Bilk

  To:

  George Katernis

  Just spoke with Dougie. He’s soooooooo awesome. Am so totally

  Leaves

  now. So glad he’s on the same page about putting a proper screenwriter on it.

  For a few moments I stared blankly at the screen.

  ‘A proper screenwriter.’

  A PROPER SCREENWRITER?

  Then I picked up a quarter of a cabbage which Chloe had for some reason left on the kitchen table (did she persuade them to eat some sort of cabbage recipe from the Gwyneth Paltrow cookbook for breakfast?), started shoving the cabbage into my mouth, biting at fronds, and walking very fast round the kitchen table dropping bits of cabbage down the front of my slip and onto the floor. There was a ping on the phone: Roxster.

 

  There was another ping on the text: Infants Branch.

 

  10.15 a.m. Calm and poised. Will simply open fridge, take out grated mozzarella and shove into mouth, along with more cabbage.

  10.16 a.m. OK, is all in mouth now. Will just have swig of Red Bull to top it off. Oh! Telephone! Maybe Roxster regretting the text?

  11 a.m. Was Imogen from Greenlight. ‘Bridget. There’s been a terrible mistake. George has just forwarded you an email in error. Could you possibly delete it before you . . . Bridget? Bridget??’

  Was not able to reply owing to contents of mouth. Rushed over to the sink and spurted out the Red Bull, grated mozzarella and cabbage, just as Chloe appeared at the top of the stairs. I turned round and grinned at her, bits of the cabbage and grated mozzarella falling from my teeth, like a vampire caught eating a person.

  ‘Bridget? Bridget?’ Imogen was still saying into the phone.

  ‘Yes?’ I said, waving a cheery hello at Chloe, whilst trying to spray the sink with the extendable tap to get rid of the cheese and cabbage.

  ‘Have you heard about Mabel’s finger?’ whispered Chloe. I nodded calmly and gesticulated towards the phone under my chin. As I listened to Imogen, repeating the story about the inadvertently-forwarded-by-George email, my eye was caught by the newspaper, still folded where Roxster had been reading it.

  The Tragic Fate of the Toy Boy

  by Ellen Boschup

  Suddenly there are more toy boys everywhere! As the advances of medical science preserve the appearance of youth, and more and more middle-aged women are devoting their time and resources to doing just that, more and more are turning to ‘the younger man’ – Ellen Barkin, Madonna and Sam Taylor-Wood to name but a few. For these older, preying
women, or ‘cougars’ as they are appropriately known, the advantages are obvious: youth; vigorous, energetic, frequent, satisfying sex; and the sort of baggage-free companionship they would never find in their sagging, balding, middle-aged male counterparts, too idle and self-absorbed to fight the advances of the years.

  ‘Bridget?’ Imogen was still saying. ‘Are you all right? What’s going on? Earth-to-Bridget. Bridget? Net-a-Porter? Mini Mars bars?’

  ‘No! Super! Thanks for letting me know. I’ll call you later. Bye!’

  I clicked off the phone and returned, reeling, to the article.

  For the young, defenceless boys who are their prey, it may seem like an attractive trade. These women, when the lights are off, anyway, seem impressively preserved. Like pickled lemons. There’s no pressure over babies, no demands on the toy boy to succeed at his career. Instead there is a gateway into a glamorous, sophisticated world beyond his wildest dreams. The benefit of an experienced lover, a woman who knows what she wants in bed, who enhances his reputation – an entrée into society, and access to luxury travel. Where’s the downside? When he’s drunk his fill, he can simply leave his cougar to fall ravenously on her next unsuspecting prey. However, as more and more of these Unfortunates are discovering . . .

  ‘Everything all right, Bridget?’ said Chloe.

  ‘Yes, super. Could you go upstairs and tidy Mabel’s drawers, please?’ I said with an unaccustomed air of calm authority.

  Once Chloe had gone, I lunged at another piece of cabbage, continuing to read as I shoved it into my mouth along with a piece of Nicorette.

  . . . far from leaving when they choose, and moving on enhanced, these abused boys are left broken and sexually exhausted, self-esteem in tatters, with a key phase of their career and family-building life wasted. But hang on a minute! Some of these youths, it is true, like Ashton Kutcher, use their cougar as a kingmaker to advance their own careers and profiles. Far more of them, however, are abandoned, back in their sordid flats and bedsits, scorned by their friends, family and colleagues for consorting with women old enough to be their grandmothers, dumped back in their own world which now seems devoid of a glamour they will never . . .