Bridget Jones's Baby: The Diaries

by Helen Fielding

  8 a.m. Hospital waiting room. Daniel is not here.

  8.10 a.m. Daniel is still not here. Oh God oh God oh God. I’m supposed to be at work in fifty minutes. Peri Campos will kill me, then eat me.

  8.20 a.m. Receptionist just said, “If you don’t go in now you’ll miss your slot.”

  —

  Was just gathering up my bags when Daniel burst in, bad mood written all over him (well, not literally, that would be weird).

  “Traffic total hell, entire city bloody gridlocked. Why did you have to fix it so bloody early, Jones? Come on, let’s get on with it. Where’s Darcy, anyway?”

  “He isn’t here.”

  Didn’t seem a good idea to tell Daniel that Mark was out of the picture: rather like when you’re trying to get everyone behind an idea at work, and if one person drops out, then they all do. Definitely am not going to tell him.

  “No Darce?”

  “Mark’s not coming,” I blurted. “He wrote me a letter. He doesn’t want to join in anymore.”

  There was a momentary glint of triumph in Daniel’s eye. “It’s the ego. Always the ego with Mrs. Darcy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing, nothing, just that childbirthing class.”

  “You might have apologized,” I said.

  “For what, Jones? It was jolly good fun. Everyone had a whale of a time except Mrs. D. Don’t have to treat the whole thing like it’s an execution in a grungy prison in Arabia.”

  The terrible thing was that Dr. Rawlings had been called away to a delivery (assumed of another baby, not FedEx parcel). Found myself unexpectedly feeling jealous of the other baby and Dr. Rawlings, almost as if she was cheating on me. And, worse, we had a male technician instead, so Daniel had no one to flirt with. All the energy seemed to have gone out of Daniel. Without Mark to compete with, he just seemed to be going through the motions.

  I, meanwhile, was so overwhelmed with love and seeing how my little gorgeous sweetheart had grown, his round head, his little nose, his hands, that I totally forgot about the time.

  “Gaaaaaah!” I said when we got out on the street. “It’s 9.15—I was supposed to be at work fifteen minutes ago.”

  “OK, OK. No need to overdo it. I’ll take you to work,” said Daniel, adding under his breath, “Never mind my galleys, my proofreading. Sit Up Britain must reign supreme.”

  —

  Car journey could only be described as tense. I was trying to mentally force the clock on the dashboard to go backwards, and move lorries and bicycles out of the way by the sheer power of thought, whilst realizing we were half an hour past the moment when I was supposed to be at my desk. Daniel was preoccupied and twitching, playing with the controls on the car and suddenly zooming and braking, in a way that made me think I was going to be sick in it again.

  When we got to the Sit Up Britain building, Daniel stayed sitting down, with the engine running. “All right, then, Jones. Well, great to catch up.”

  “ ‘Great to catch up’?” I said.

  “See you around.”

  “ ‘See you around’?”

  “Jones, don’t keep repeating everything I say like a parrot.”

  “ ‘Like a parrot’?”

  “Jones.”

  “I’m so confused. We just went to a scan together and now you’re saying, ‘Great to catch up,’ and ‘See you around,’ as if we’ve just slept together.”

  “Right, right,” said Daniel. “It’s all the same with you girls, isn’t it? Just because we go to a scan together it doesn’t mean we’re going out together. It doesn’t mean we have to get all serious and start having babies.”

  “But we’re already having a baby. That’s why we went to the scan.”

  “No, Jones,” he said. “You’re having a baby.”

  I froze.

  “Sorry, sorry,” he said. “Look. I just don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I have the skill set.”

  “What if it’s yours?”

  “I suppose I could try.”

  “And if it isn’t?”

  “Well, that would change everything. Sorry, sorry, oh, come on, don’t look at me like that, Jones. The point is, if we’d done it up the arse like I wanted to, none of this would have happened.”

  “Daniel,” I said, getting out of the car. “You can shove your mouth up your own bum. And if it was a choice of bringing up the baby with you or Peri Campos, I would choose Peri Campos.”

  —

  Beyond late, mind reeling from Daniel, I rushed up to the seventh floor, grabbed a sheaf of papers and held them in front of my stomach—to give a pleasing air of just having popped out to the scanner and not being late or pregnant at all—then walked casually into the office: to find Peri Campos conducting a meeting for the entire Sit Up Britain staff.

  “It’s wet, it’s see-through and without it we’d DIE! Water!” she was yelling, strutting in front of a smart board while the youths in their man-buns sat up attentively at the front and the old guard sat sulkily at the back.

  “Bridget, you’re thirty-five minutes late, dated and boring. Sit Up Britain is dated and boring. The title is dated and boring. The staff is dated and boring. The content is dated and boring. We need tension, we need action, we need suspense. ‘They’re small, they’re fiercely powerful, they’re potential killers and they’re ALL OVER YOUR HOUSE!’ Well?” She looked around expectantly.

  “Ants!” said Jordan.

  “Vacuums!” said Richard Finch.

  “Vibrators?” said Miranda, as I spurted out laughing.

  “It’s batteries,” said Peri Campos, drily, “for those of us who have any sort of tenuous handle on today’s news. Bridget, see me in my office nine o’clock on Monday morning. That’s nine o’clock—not three in the afternoon: not late.”

  “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

  “Promise! I love that word because it raises so many talking points.”

  “Please don’t sack her,” said Richard Finch, looking at me and miming, “Are you mad?”

  FRIDAY 17 NOVEMBER

  8.30 p.m. My flat. Have sense of impending doom. Am about to be sacked, both the fathers hate me, everything is a mess, is Friday night and am all alone. Aloooooone!

  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 extended, warm, third-world family.

  I have a great job (how long for?) and no one, apart from Miranda, knows I am pregnant yet.

  But, yes. I do have friends. Singletons to have fun and laugh with! There’s no need to wallow. Will simply call Shazzer.

  —

  9 p.m. Conversation with Shazzer did not go well.

  “Shaz? It’s Bridget. Are you and Tom going out tonight?”

  There was silence at the other end: the same silence as I used to emit when Magda called to see if she could come out with us and try, Smug-Marriedly and in vain, to share in our debauched Singleton fun.

  “It’s juss”—she sounded really drunk—“we’re in Hackney iss a bit kind of…out there?”

  I bit my lip, tears pricking my eyelids. They didn’t even ask me to come! I’m not a Singleton anymore. I’m not a Smug Married. I’m a freak!

  “Bridge. What’s going on? Have we got cut off?”

  “Why didn’t you ask me to come?”

  “Well…it’s just, it’s kind of a bit drunken and out there, you know, in your…”

  “In my condition?”

  I could hear squabbling in the background. Tom came on the phone, even more drunk than Shaz.

 
“It’s bit messy, y’see,” he said. “Miranda’s…”

  What? Miranda as well, there without asking me?

  —

  10 p.m. The thing is, when you feel isolated and alone, you have to “reach out” to people, don’t you?

  10.05 p.m. Am going to “reach out” by texting.

  10.15 p.m. This is what have texted:

  Magda, I feel so isolated and alone. I cannot live the Singleton life any longer. I need my Smug Married friends to support me through this testing time.

  Shazzer, I feel so isolated and alone. Even though I am pregnant I am not a Smug Mother and need the support of my Singleton friends to support me through this testing time.

  Mum, I feel isolated and alone. I cannot get through this without the support of my dear, dear mother. I need my mother to support me through this testing time.

  Mark, I feel isolated and alone. I cannot go through this testing time without the support of my dear, dear Mark. I need you to support me through this testing time.

  Daniel, I feel isolated and alone…

  At that point I fell asleep.

  SATURDAY 18 NOVEMBER

  11 a.m. My flat. Gaah! Woken by series of pinging and ringing noises. Searched confusedly in duvet for source.

  “Hello?” I said into the landline whilst fumbling for still-pinging cellphone.

  “It’s Magda. I was SO happy to get your text. We’ve all been DYING to chip in but we thought you were cozied up with your single friends and we were too boring. Anyway, you’ll come to lunch in Portobello today? And then we’ll start and get you sorted out. Of course everyone’s going to give you endless insane advice, but not me.”

  “Um, I’m still in bed, but…”

  “In bed? Bridget, you are wearing a bra?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “Yes, or you’ll end up with one breast under each arm, but nothing with underwiring.”

  “Why not?” I said, thinking of my precious lift-and-separate lingerie collection.

  “Underwiring crushes the milk ducts.”

  “Hang on,” I answered the cellphone. It was Tom.

  “Tom! Hi! I’m on the other line. Call you back?”

  “OK. Check your texts. We’re meeting you in the Electric for Bloody Marys at one p.m.”

  “Sorry, Mag,” I said, putting the landline back to my ear to find her still talking.

  “Oh, and don’t eat raw eggs.”

  “Why would I eat raw eggs?”

  “But, actually, the only advice really worth taking is not to lie down.”

  “How can I not lie down?”

  “Not on your back, because your main artery to your brain goes through your back.”

  The cellphone rang again, “Darling, it’s Mummy”—in tears—“I had no idea you needed me. I thought you HATED me, it’s been so…”

  “Magda, I have to go. Mum is on the other line.”

  “OK, see you in the Electric at one.”

  Returned to the sound of Mum sobbing into the phone. “Darling, I thought you were on no-speaks. I’m so glad you need me, darling. Anyway, we’re coming down to Debenhams tomorrow afternoon, so will you come too and we can go shopping?”

  “I’d love to, but…”

  The landline rang. “Mum, I’ve got to go, I’ll call you back later.”

  Magda again: “The only other thing I was going to say is don’t go swimming because it puts a strain on the uterus.”

  I glanced down at my texts: a stream of placatory blandishments from Tom, Shaz and Miranda. We were all supposed to be meeting in the Electric at one o’clock, but wait…

  “…oh, and if your hair starts falling out,” Magda was continuing, “just rub a bit of engine oil in your scalp. Anyway, better get moving. See you in the Electric at one! Woney and Mufti are coming!”

  “Um…” I thought, panicking wildly. I couldn’t have the Smug Mothers turning up at the Electric at the same time as Tom, Miranda and Shazzer.

  “The Electric’s a bit noisy, could we make it at two…at Café 202?”

  “Oh,” she said, huffily. “Well. I’ve told Mufti and Woney now, but…OK yes. See you there.”

  Just before I left I heard my email ping.

  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 de
cided 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.”