Bridget Jones's Baby (13 page)

Sender: Peri Campos

Subject: Meeting Monday at 9

Be in my office at 9 on Monday, bringing with you six breaking news stories which are not dated or stultifyingly boring with appropriate headlines, in format we discussed Friday.

Portobello Road, Notting Hill.
Felt heady and freeing to be in the scruffy glamour and crowds of Portobello again: overpriced delis, flower shops and designer cashmere stores now mixed up with the betting shops and stalls selling street-cred hats and vegetables that have been there for years.

It was rather like being a celebrity, being pregnant, now that it was starting to show: cars screeching to a halt at zebra crossings, people giving up their seats on the tube, everyone stopping me and asking the same questions.

“Is it a boy or a girl?”

“When's it due?”

Of course, I was
terribly
gracious with my fans. Rather like the Queen, only pregnant and younger and not about to sit next to my mum in Grafton Underwood.

Reached the Electric feeling jolly, to find Shazzer slumped with her head on one of the outdoor tables. “Hi! Shaz!” I said.

She emitted a slight groaning sound. “I'm SO hung-over, can you order me a Bloody Mary? I can't move my head.”

“Where are Tom and Miranda?”

“I dunno. Miranda hooked up with someone. And I think Tom was goner come straight here from wherever he went to, but I'm furious with him because…”

Oh God. It was already 1.15 p.m.—what about Magda? I mean, maybe I could be a tiny bit late?

Went inside to order a Bloody Mary and a mint tea. Came out to see Tom, disheveled and unshaven, walking towards us with the determined air of a man being made to walk a straight line by a policeman who's pulled him over.

“Oh my God,” he said, joining Shazzer and crashing his head onto the table, reeking of tequila.

“They're wrecked, they're shag-drunk and they're all over your table! Tom and Shazzer!” said Miranda, bouncing up with a spring in her step, looking fresh and youthful.

“Aren't you hung-over?” I said, joining them at the table.

“Hung-over? No! Sex was my Friday-night drug of choice! Did you get the email from Peri Campos? Glass of white burgundy!” she said flirtatiously to the waiter, who had miraculously instantly appeared. She glanced, horrified, at my mint tea. “And another glass of wine for Bridget, and bring us some food.”

“I can't, I'm pregnant,” I said, as Miranda ordered random food.

“No, no! Breaking news from Netdocbam!.com. Two glasses of wine a week is GOOD FOR THE BABY. ‘It's wet, it's formerly toxic, and it's all over your fetus!' ”

“REALLY?” I said, brightening. This was a double joy: a headline and a drinky.

“Shhh,” said Tom. “You're hurting my head.”

Mmmm. Crisp, cold white wine was so delicious.

“So, want to know my other story?” said Miranda, sipping her drink. “ ‘They're small, they're totally incontinent and they MAKE YOU DEPRESSED—babies!' ”

“What?” said Shazzer, sitting bolt upright and shooting a look at Tom.

“Yup,” said Miranda smugly. “Survey in next month's
Psychiatry Last Week Today.
”

“How did you get next month's
Psychiatry Last Week Today
?” said Tom from his prone position.

“Contacts, bro.”

“Please don't say ‘bro,' ” I said.

“Apparently all these years women have been
brainwashed
into thinking they're depressed because they don't have children, whereas apparently women who give up their careers to have children are more depressed than women who keep their careers and don't have children.”

“You SEE, Tom?” said Shazzer, adding, “Tom's decided to adopt a baby. Jumping ship, jumping on the bandwagon.”

“Shazzer, shut up, it was a secret,” said Tom, furious.

I was staring at Miranda, aghast.

“Oh come on, you don't have to take any notice of an article. All surveys are bollox, but it's a headline for Monday. They're passive-aggressive: ‘Oh, oh, look at me, I can't do anything, help me,' and they ruin your life—babies!”

“Exactly! It's all propaganda!” crowed Shaz as I took a giant gulp of wine, remembering how much better it made one feel, and also wanting to have another one and a packet of Silk Cut. Started tucking into my goats cheese toastie.

“All these years we've been BRAINWASHED into thinking we were depressed because we haven't got children, whereas, in fact, we weren't depressed at all!” Shazzer ranted gleefully.

“But, er, we were,” said Tom.

“No. We just THOUGHT we were because society made us believe we'd suffered an unbearable loss, whereas in fact people who make a conscious decision not to have children are not depressed at all,” said Shazzer.

“Hurrah!” I said, out of pure habit. “Childless Singletons! Hurrah!”

“Bridget! What are you doing here? I thought you were meeting
us
for lunch.”

Gaaah! It was Magda and Mufti. Mufti was pushing a stroller containing a baby and festooned with a scary amount of baby-clobber.

“Are you drinking WINE?”

I leapt to my feet guiltily, knocking the wine over with my stomach.

“She can't drink wine! She can't drink wine!” said Mufti.

“Honestly, you Singletons are completely irresponsible,” said Magda. “She's coming with us. Bridget, come on.”

“Is that goats cheese?” said Mufti. “You're eating GOATS CHEESE?”

Woney suddenly appeared, also with a pram but no baby in it. “What are you doing here—we thought we were meeting in Café 202. We've bought you a Bugaboo stroller!”

“Oh, thank you,” I gushed, looking doubtfully at the giant pram. How was I going to even get it up the stairs?

“Oh my God, you're enormous,” said Woney. “I thought you were only a few months. You'll have to stop piling it on or you'll have a terrible delivery.”

Magda squeezed my hand and whispered, “Take no notice of Woney—she spent so much time on her feet she got varicose veins in her labia,” at which Shazzer smirked.

“It's a girl!” said Mufti. “It's a girl! Look how low-slung she's carrying.”

“No, it's not, it's a boy. Look how bloated her boobs are.”

“A boy? A boy? She's completely lopsided,” said Mufti. “Completely lopsided.”

“OK, stop,” said Magda. “We're here to help Bridget, not torture her. Guess what? We've found you a nanny: Eastern European. She's got a degree in neuroscience from the University of Vilnius.”

“Have you found out who the father is?” said Woney. “You can't have a baby without a father.”

“Look,” growled Tom, breathing alcohol fumes. “It's positively archaic to be living with two heterosexual parents of opposite sexes.”

“Wouldn't want to saddle a baby with that sort of social stigma,” said Shaz. Miranda was ignoring everyone, swiping on Tinder.

“I think you lot might be the tiniest bitter,” said Mufti. “Bitter.”

“Why, because we didn't make a materialistic grab for any solvent man in sight when we hit thirty?” said Shaz.

“No, but maybe that's why you're childless and single.”

“Are you the one who got varicose veins in her labia?” rasped Shazzer.

Whole thing erupted into a terrible shouting match. Ended up being swept away by Magda, with the new giant gift pram—a somewhat weird accessory without a baby in it—while Magda went on and on about how it was going to be fine when I got my new nanny who was a friend of
her
nanny, Audrona, who had a degree in Aeronautical Engineering.

A very beautiful girl, who looked like the sort of Eastern European model/princess Daniel would stand me up at a scan for, was heading towards us pushing the identical Bugaboo stroller.

“Nice pram!” I said, suddenly thinking the bonding over the overpriced baby accessory might catapult me into a new glamorous Smug Mother strata.

“Nice baby!” she said, in an accent, looking into my pram—then looked at me oddly, since there clearly was no baby.

“Still cooking!” I said, patting my bump. “But yours is adorable.”

The baby was indeed adorable—and yet oddly fa—

“Mama,” said the baby.

“Molly!” said Magda. “That's my baby—what are you doing with my fucking baby?”

People were starting to stare as Magda struggled with the complex Bugaboo strapping arrangements to get Molly out of the pram, yelling, “You've stolen my baby!”

“No! Do not be cross, Mrs. Carew!” said the model/princess. “Audrona has job interview. She asked me to take Molly. I have master's degree in Psychology and Early Childhood Development. She is fine, see?”

S
UNDAY 19
N
OVEMBER

2 p.m. My flat.
Have spent most of day scouring newspapers for stories, which can turn into Peri Campos riddle-me-ree headline for bloody meeting tomorrow:

“They're slimy, they're creepily silent—and they're lurking in your arugula—frogs!”

“They're hexagonal, they suddenly change their form and they gouge out your eyes—umbrellas!”

3 p.m.
This is hopeless. This is ridiculous. Ooh, text.

3.05 p.m.
A miracle! It's from Mark!

Mark Darcy

Bridget, I am mortified to hear that you are isolated and in distress and so sorry that I only just now got your message. Should I come now? Or would you like to visit for tea? I have something to show you.

3.10 p.m.
Oh my God. Oh my God. This is wonderful. Flat is a bit messy. Don't want to put him off and make him think am sluttish housewife. Better go round there. Wonder what he has to show me?—as the actress said to the bishop harrumph, harrumph.