Bridget Jones's Baby: The Diaries

  Everyone was staring.

  “Do you have to say ‘preggy’?” I said, queasily.

  “Oh Bridget!” said Mum, delighted. “Oh, what perfect timing!” She suddenly looked coy. “Is it Mark’s? He’s here, you know. We were all just saying, now that he’s got divorced from that frightful intellectual woman, maybe you two had seen sense at last. Do you remember how you used to play with him in the paddling pool? Bridget, is it Mark’s?”

  “Maybe. I mean, there’s at least a fifty per cent chance.”

  Saw Mavis Enderbury listening in with an evil look of triumph in her eye.

  “A fifty per cent chance?” said Mum. “Bridget! Did you have a threesome?”

  —

  Back at Mum and Dad’s house there were tears and drama.

  “I’ve waited all your adult life for you to have a little baby and now you have to do it like this, in front of the cream of Grafton Underwood and Mavis Enderbury. I’ve never been so humiliated in my entire life.”

  “But, Pam,” Dad said gently, “it’s a baby. It’s our grandchild. You’ve always wanted a grandchild.”

  “Not like this,” wailed Mum. “This isn’t how it was supposed to be.”

  “Have you had it checked out?” blurted Una. “I mean, at your age it could come out a mongol.”

  “Una!” I said. “You cannot say ‘mongol’ in this day and age. Mum, I did not mean to embarrass you. I was led to believe by reliable sources that the bump was not visible to the untrained eye. I came to the Ethelred Stone because you’ve been going on and on about it and I wanted to support you. I was going to tell you quietly, here, just with our family. It’s a baby. It’s a life. It’s your grandson. I thought you’d be happy. If you’re going to be like this, I’m off.”

  —

  As I stomped back to where Mark’s car was waiting, I passed Admiral and Elaine Darcy’s manor house and heard raised voices behind the tall privet hedge.

  “What kind of carry-on is this, boy? We’re not docked in some Caribbean port! You’ll put the whole Royal Whatsit in jeopardy and make us look like bloody fools!”

  “My dear Admiral…” I heard Elaine Darcy remonstrate.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy. What’s the matter with you?”

  “Father, I’ve explained to you the reality of the situation, and I’m afraid that is all I have to say. Goodbye.”

  There was a pause. I heard Mark’s footsteps scrunching away across the gravel, then the Admiral continued, “Why can’t he just stay married and bloody reproduce like everyone else? Do you think he’s queer?”

  “Well, you wanted to send him to Eton, dear.”

  “What? What are you bloody talking about?”

  “I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “For what? What, woman?”

  “All those nannies, boarding schools: for delegating the upbringing of my only son.”

  There was a silence.

  “Anyway,” said the Admiral, eventually. “Jolly good. Stiff Upper Lip.”

  —

  Dad came hurrying along and caught me skulking along the hedge.

  “Let’s sit down, pet.”

  We walked along a bit from the Darcys’ house and sat on the grassy bank.

  “Don’t worry about your mum. You know how she is: mad as a bucket, mad as a snake. She’ll come round when she’s got used to the idea.”

  We sat quietly for a moment. You could hear the stream, the birds, voices in the distance: the old, simple scene.

  “It’s the expectation which undoes everyone. Every time. It should be like this, it should be like that. The trick is to deal with what is. You always wanted a baby, now, didn’t you?”

  “Well, always in about three years’ time for about two hours,” I said sheepishly. “But I realize now, yes, I did.”

  “And now you’re going to get your baby. And he’s going to be the luckiest baby in the world because he’s got you as his mother. There won’t be a more loving, kind mother than you—think of the fun that little chap’s going to have with you. Now you go out there, do your best, and don’t get caught up in everyone else’s nonsense. It’ll turn out fine, I promise you.”

  —

  Dad walked with me to Mark’s car, with the waiting driver, promising he wouldn’t tell Mum. When Mark appeared, looking upset and shaken, Dad clapped him on the shoulder in a manly way and gave him a conspiratorial smile. But he didn’t say anything. That’s the brilliance of Dad. He knew Mark would hate it, and that he didn’t need to.

  —

  As the car purred off, I took a leaf out of Dad’s book and simply put my head on Mark’s shoulder and closed my eyes. As I drifted off to sleep, I’m sure I heard Mark whisper, “Even if the baby does turn out to be Daniel’s, I still want to be his dad.”

  SATURDAY 4 NOVEMBER

  5 p.m. Just got back from baby shopping in John Lewis department store with Mark and Daniel. They always say if anything really bad happens you should go to John Lewis, because nothing really bad ever happens in John Lewis.

  —

  Mark was holding a huge pile of baby books and a box of muslin baby blankets that said “Huggy Swaddle.”

  “Swaddling?” said Daniel incredulously, holding a miniature Chelsea football outfit. “You’re into swaddling?”

  “It can be effective,” said Mark, with the air of an expert witness who had been called on to advise on military intervention versus peacekeeping, “if it’s not too tight.”

  “…and you’re an Egyptian peasant in the fourth century B.C.”

  “It promotes sleep,” said Mark, picking up a wipe-warmer, as if hardly aware of Daniel’s presence.

  “What? When they’re strapped to a board? Isn’t that a little Abu Ghraib?”

  “Yes, you have no sense whatsoever as to what is and isn’t appropriate in terms of what you apparently consider a ‘joke.’ Presumably, you would have the child screaming all night till he falls asleep, drunk on teaspoons of whiskey.”

  “You take that back!”

  —

  They were quickly removed from the store by the John Lewis security team. Nothing bad is ever allowed to happen in John Lewis. Sadly, it is not so everywhere.

  SUNDAY 12 NOVEMBER

  5 p.m. My flat. Just back from childbirth class. Mark rushed up late, talking on the phone, briefcase in hand, and acknowledged Daniel and myself with a brief nod, still talking on the phone.

  “Turn it off, Darce, there’s a good chap,” said Daniel.

  We signed in at reception and burst through the double doors to find an instructor in front of a table with a rubber model of the bottom half of a woman. Couples were sitting in lines at tables, each of them trying to put a nappy on a plastic baby.

  “Ah!” said the instructor. “Welcome! Find yourselves a baby in the bin there!”

  There was just one brown plastic baby doll left in the bin.

  “If we’d got here on time we could have had a white baby,” whispered Daniel, to appalled stares.

  “Daniel,” I hissed. “Shut urrrrp!”

  “Right!” said the instructor, smoothing it over. “Who have we here? Mark? Daniel? You’re our second same-sex couple today.”

  Everyone applauded politely as Daniel smirked at Mark’s expression.

  “And Bridget? You’re the surrogate? Welcome!”

  Didn’t think it was a good idea to explain at that particular juncture, so I just smiled vaguely while everyone fussed around rearranging the chairs.

  “No,” said Mark suddenly, “we are not a couple.”

  There was a moment’s silence while everybody stared.

  “Right…sooo…?” said the instructor. “So you and Bridget are a couple?”

  “No.”

  “So Daniel and Bridget are…”

  “None of us are a couple,” I said. “I slept with both of them and I don’t know which one is…”

  “Oh! So you both opted for actual intercourse with the surrogate!
That’s unusual! Anyway, all comers welcome here!”

  “ ‘Comers’ being the operative word,” remarked Daniel.

  “Let’s carry on, shall we?” She held up the rubber gynecological model. “What’s the opening of the uterus called? Anyone tell me?”

  Daniel shot his hand up: “The vagina!”

  “Um, no…actually.”

  “The cervix,” said Mark.

  “The cervix. Exactly! And the opening to the cervix?”

  “The vagina!” said Daniel triumphantly.

  “Yes! Or, as we call it, the birth canal, or, for Baby, the exit into a new world.”

  “Always two ways of looking at anything,” said Daniel.

  The instructor was now holding up a plastic baby and the rubber cut-in-half-woman. Honestly, how did any normal relationship ever survive a childbirth class?

  “So! Let’s have a look at what actually happens when Baby’s finally on the way. So the birth canal needs to open up.” She pushed the baby down headfirst into the rubber half-woman. “Can I have a volunteer to play doctor? How about you, Daniel?”

  “…since opening up vaginas has been your life’s work,” murmured Mark.

  “OK! So! Doctor! You put your hand in here.”

  She guided Daniel’s hand up into the rubber lady’s “birth canal.” “And Baby pushes down from here. Can you feel Baby?”

  “Frightfully sorry,” said Daniel wriggling his hand in the rubber birth canal. “I can’t seem to reach it.”

  Mark smirked as Daniel tried to shove his hand farther up while the instructor shoved the doll farther down.

  “Ugh,” said the instructor, suddenly revealing a snappy side. “This happens every sugaring time. I keep asking for another one. That’s the National Health for you. Nobody’s vagina is this small.”

  “You’ve obviously never been to the Ping Pong Puck in Bangkok,” said Daniel.

  “Oh. My. God!” said the instructor, looking at Daniel disbelievingly. “Oh my God. You’re the man from that travel show! Aren’t you? I saw you on that programme from Bangkok! It was hilarious! Daniel Cleaver!”

  Everyone was now looking at Daniel excitedly.

  “Are you doing another show?”

  “Well, actually, no,” said Daniel, trying to extract his arm from the birthing canal. “I’ve just written a novel, actually. It’s called The Poetics of…”

  “Right, that’s it,” said Mark. “This is intolerable. I’m leaving.”

  —

  The three of us stood outside in the street with rain drizzling down and lorries and buses roaring past.

  “You’re an imbecile, you’re a child,” Mark was saying furiously to Daniel.

  “Well, she said to ask questions.”

  “I deeply resent being placed in these idiotic situations with such a ludicrous…”

  “Well, get out of it, then, Mrs. D. Everyone knows you haven’t got the soldiers anyway. Firing blanks for years.”

  “You take that back,” said Mark.

  “The dominant sperm conquers all.”

  Mark made as if to punch him.

  “Mark, stop!” I said.

  The two of them stood, squaring off like boxers.

  I literally couldn’t take it anymore. Neither of them noticed as I saw a cab approaching with its light on. “Bye!” I said as it pulled up. “Talk to you later.”

  “Wait! Bridget!” said Mark.

  “I’m just tired,” I said. “Thanks for coming, guys. Talk to you later.”

  When I looked out of the back window they seemed to have stopped fighting, but Daniel was talking intently to Mark. Then Mark suddenly turned on his heel and strode away.

  —

  10 p.m. My flat. Ooh, goody! Doorbell. Maybe Mark!

  It was not Mark, but a courier with a letter from Mark.

  Mark is literally the only person who still writes letters, in ink, on embossed paper.

  Dear Bridget,

  The current situation cannot sustain. I have stated my feelings for you and the baby, but it has now become clear that I have no place in this ludicrous and unbridled scenario. My concern for your well-being is tempered by the knowledge that, had you been honest and clear to me much earlier in this situation, a great deal of distress and confusion could have been avoided.

  The priority now is for you not to become embroiled in further antics, but simply to rest and take care of the unborn child. If I can in any way offer financial assistance or support, you need only let me know and I will honour that commitment.

  Yours ever,

  Mark

  NINE

  CHAOS AND DISORDER

  MONDAY 13 NOVEMBER

  10.15 a.m. Sit Up Britain office. Just got into work. I can’t do this. I absolutely cannot do a day’s work with the following things inside me:

  1) Increasingly large baby asking for baked potatoes, cheese, gherkins and, suddenly, vodka.

  2) A completely confused and broken heart. Why did Mark write that letter? Just when it had all been so sweet on the car journey from Grafton Underwood. Why? What happened? Why isn’t he answering my texts? Maybe he actually thinks I’m trashy and slutty and Daniel reminds him of the part of me he doesn’t like.

  —

  Furtively FaceTimed Tom under the desk.

  “You’re not trashy or slutty,” said Tom on FaceTime. “You’re a top news producer and you’re practically a nun. You need to play At Least. You know? That thing you showed me, when I was being tortured by Pretentious Jerome? At least? At least I have this, that or the other. Makes it seem better?”

  “Yes! Yes!” I said, brightening. “Thanks, Tom.”

  Clicked FaceTime off.

  FaceTime popped up again: Tom.

  “Bridge, just a note to self. Don’t FaceTime anyone again from that angle.”

  Tom disappeared, then popped up again on FaceTime: “Am I a horrible person?”

  “Bridget, get on,” said Richard Finch, walking past my desk and glancing at my boobs.

  Quickly texted Tom, “No, nice person,” then started typing furiously and staring intently at the screen: for all the world as if I was working on the day’s running order.

  AT LEAST

  I’m having a baby.

  It might be all right with Mark—it could just be a blip.

  Daniel is still in the picture, so at least one father left.

  Daniel might change.

  I have my own flat.

  I have my own car.

  I have a lovely dad.

  Mum might change and start being happy about the baby instead of obsessed with the Queen’s visit.

  I am surrounded by friends, both Singleton and Smug Married, like an extended, warm, third-world family.

  I have a great job and no one, apart from Miranda, knows I am pregnant yet.

  —

  “They’re fucking enormous,” came a loud whisper behind me.

  “Woah, bro. They’re totally legit.”

  “Look at this, Jordan. From this angle, against the sign, the tips used to be just teasing the P on Sit Up Britain, but now they’re right across the B.”

  “Yo. Sick, bro.”

  “I mean they’re fucking enor—”

  “Woah. Just, like totally boss, bro.”

  I whirled round. It was Richard Finch whispering with one of the man-bun youths.

  “What are you two talking about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Richard! I know you were talking about my boobs.”

  “I wasn’t!”

  “You were!”

  “I wasn’t!”

  “It’s sexism. It’s harassment.”

  “I was just remarking on a natural phenomenon,” said Richard. “If you saw a double-decker bus which had doubled in size you’d be entitled to say something about it, wouldn’t you?”

  “I am not a bus, I am a human being. Anyway, excuse me, I have to pee.”

  Richard Finch suddenly had one of those rare moments w
hen a thought came into his head.

  “Are you PREGNANT?” he yelled.

  There was a loud silence. Turned to see that everyone was staring and Peri Campos had just come into the office.

  It was all too much. The baby ejected his cheesy baked potato and cappuccino in protest and I threw up into the wastepaper basket in front of everyone.

  —

  8 p.m. My flat. These are the people who have been fired in Peri Campos’s “pruning.”

  June on Reception (seventeen years at Sit Up Britain).

  Harry the driver (eighteen years at Sit Up Britain).

  Julian the floor manager. Yes, he kept forgetting to tell us we were on air, and couldn’t tell “camera right” from “camera left,” but he’d been studying the difference for twenty years.

  As we all filed out of the meeting, Peri Campos called me aside.

  “HR is familiar with employees getting pregnant when their jobs are in jeopardy. Though usually employees whose jobs are in jeopardy are too old to get pregnant. Anyway, don’t think you can get away with any bullshit.”

  She turned back to the room. “Oy! You lot! One last thing! We’re going to start an hour earlier in the mornings.”

  Honestly! Everyone knows people in the media are supposed to start late because they’re so bohemian and creative. I’ve booked the first slot at 8 a.m. for the scan on Thursday so I could be back at work by 11.

  —

  Oh come on, sure, it will be fine. Will be here by 9.30. Will be early!

  WEDNESDAY 15 NOVEMBER

  Number of texts sent to Mark: 7. Number of replies from Mark: 0.

  Just called Mark’s office and got his Oxbridge assistant, Freddo.

  “Arm yar,” said Freddo, in his resonant tenor. “Arm. He won’t be in the office for a couple of weeks. Off the radar.”

  “Has he gone somewhere scary?”

  “Just, arm, yup off the radar. Jolly good.”

  That’s odd. Ooh, text.

  DANIEL FUCKWIT DO NOT ANSWER

  All set for the scan tomorrow, Jones? See how our little express train’s coming along?

  Looks like it’s just me and Daniel again. At least he remembered. Maybe he’s changed.

  THURSDAY 16 NOVEMBER