Bridget Jones's Baby: The Diaries

by Helen Fielding

  —

  6.30 p.m. Please, my child. Give forth thy passwords back to what is left of my brain, so that I might tell Mark that we love him and want him to be thy father, and—crucially—bring forth a cheesy potato that I might nourish thee.

  —

  Then suddenly, miraculously, it came to me:

  5287

  I checked the numbers and letters on the landline phone.

  5287

  J A U R

  JUST AS U R

  6.45 p.m. Lunged at the cellphone and found Mark’s number in contact. Hands shaking, I called him. I got his voicemail.

  “Mark, it’s Bridget. I have something very, very important to say to you. I did not lie to you about the condoms. It was Daniel who lied. It’s you I love. I love you. Please call me. Please call me.”

  6.46 p.m. Nothing. Maybe Mark has forgotten his password.

  7 p.m. Just texted Mark the same message. Maybe he’s still painting. Maybe I should go round there. Oh God. I have to get some phone, I mean food. Maybe I’ll get some cash first, so nothing else can go wrong.

  —

  Limped, broken, downstairs to the cash machine booth at the bank. Went through the automatic doors, put my handbag down and entered the PIN. It didn’t work. Why didn’t it work? Maybe I’d entered it too many times. Stumbling, as if in a dream, I went back out to the street, through the automatic doors, then suddenly, just as they closed, saw that my bag was still on the floor inside.

  Oh God, oh God. My phone was in the bag, as well as my wallet and the keys to my flat.

  And the doors to the bank wouldn’t open.

  —

  8.30 p.m. Slumped on doorstep outside my flat. Whole idea of making the big small is just bollox. Magda is right.

  8.35 p.m. It has started to rain: really lots and lots of rain.

  8.40 p.m. Maybe I could ask a kindly stranger to lend me their phone? But then, what is the point if cannot remember anyone’s phone numbers? Still, maybe through a dream state…there is a man approaching!

  I started to say, “Excuse me?”—but he just dropped a coin on my coat and hurried off, looking frightened. Obviously thinks am desperate pregnant baby lady, like Thomas Hardy’s Fanny Robin dying in the snow.

  Hearing footsteps, I raised my head wearily, perhaps for the last time, and saw, once again, a familiar figure in a dark blue overcoat, striding towards me through the rainy street.

  FOURTEEN

  RECONCILIATION

  WEDNESDAY 14 FEBRUARY

  “What are you doing sitting in the rain?” said Mark, hurrying towards me. He helped me up, and started taking off his overcoat. “I just missed your call. I was in court.”

  “In court? What about your painting?”

  “Terrible rubbish. Don’t mention it again, I’ve been calling you constantly since you rang.”

  “My phone’s in my bag stuck in the bank.”

  “Your bag’s stuck in the bank? Here, put this on.”

  He put his overcoat on my shoulders.

  “Why are you on the doorstep? Where are your keys?”

  “They’re in the bag in the bank.”

  “They’re in the bag in the bank. Jolly good. Won’t enquire further right now. So! Business as usual.”

  He rattled the door a few times and tried to slip the lock with his credit card.

  “OK,” he said, “probably get barred from the bar for this, but here we go.”

  He smashed the side window with his fist and opened the door from the inside.

  —

  I started my speech on the way up the stairs.

  “I’m so happy to see you. I didn’t lie to you. I’d never lie to you. There were dolphin condoms both times. I realized I’ve been brainwashed over the years by all the things that have happened, and dating self-help books and all the dating advice and to think that a way to a man’s heart is to seem not very interested in him. That you mustn’t let a man know you fancy him in case he thinks you fancy him and…”

  Of course the door to the actual flat was locked as well. Mark took out his credit card and simply slipped the lock.

  “Yes, I think we need to look at some security issues here. You were saying?”

  “I thought that you mustn’t let an old love know you still love him, in case he thinks you still love him.”

  He went completely silent and still.

  “Mark?”

  “Yes?”

  “I love you.”

  “You love me?”

  “Yes. And I’m really, simply, genuinely sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “But it was no more your fault than mine,” he said.

  “No. It was my fault. Now I’m having a child, I realize—on that occasion and many other occasions—I didn’t need to react like a child.”

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly like a child,” he said.

  “Good point. Pretty drunk for a child.”

  “That would be actually pretty alarming.” He smiled and picked up a bottle of wine. “Is this for the baby?”

  “Mark, what I’m trying to say is I’m sorry that I hurt y…”

  “But this has no logic, I hurt you too. We must both apo…”

  “Look. Can I make the speech, please?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “We’ve had that.”

  “Mark, stop it. Listen. Stop being a barrister, stop being an alpha male, just be a person.”

  He looked confused for a second, like his whole sense of self was collapsing again.

  “It’s you I love,” I said. “Whatever happens, whatever you decide to do, it will always be you. I’ve lived quite a long time now. Of all the people I’ve met in the world in my quite long life, you are the most decent, the kindest, the most intelligent, the most sensitive, with the deepest soul.” I noticed he was looking slightly disappointed. “And also,” I added hurriedly, “the hottest, the most handsome, witty and charming.” He was starting to look really pleased now. “The most stylish! And the best, most amazing shag ever.” He was positively beaming. “You are the person I most love in all the world,” I went on, “apart from the baby, and it’s you that I really want from the depths of my heart to be the father to this baby.”

  I thought for a second, “I mean, obviously, Shaz, Tom and Miranda say you have a poker up your arse and are anally retentive and avoidant, and you’re always talking about work, and always on the phone and…”

  “…PERMANENTLY on the phone, stuck up, and snobbish, and emotionally stunted,” Mark added, sheepishly.

  “But they’re completely wrong. The truth is I love you very much…”

  “…with a few adjustments perhaps: Wittier? More spontaneous? More playful? More charming? More…?”

  “No,” I said. “Just as you are.”

  “That’s my line.”

  The smoke alarm went off.

  —

  “Shit, the curry.”

  “You’ve made CURRY?” said Mark, genuinely frightened now. “Happy Valentine’s Day, by the way.”

  “No it’s takeaway from The Pink Elephant. It’s VALENTINE’S DAY? I forgot I put it in the oven the day before yesterday to heat up,” I yelled over the noise of the smoke alarm.

  Acrid fumes were belching from the oven.

  Mark miraculously remembered and punched in the alarm code, saying, “Yes, Valentine’s Day,” turned on the extractor fan and opened the French windows. Once the alarm had stopped, he opened the oven. He pulled out a melted polystyrene carton with the curry in it.

  “Do you know one of the things I love most about you, Bridget?”

  “What?” I said excitedly, thinking I was about to be praised: for being intelligent or pretty.

  “That in all the time I’ve known you I’ve never once been bored by you.”

  “Oh,” I said, wondering if being not boring was good? I mean, on the scale of things people might lo
ve you for?

  “There have been several near-death experiences, I’ve been on fire—both sexually in your bed and physically in your kitchen, I’ve been poisoned, I’ve been crazed with lust, furious, heartbroken, humiliated, embarrassed, ecstatic, soaked, covered in cake, confounded by your idiosyncratic, though largely valid, internal logic, insulted by drunks, forced into breaking-and-entering scenarios, fights, in legal extremis, third-world jail, embarrassing parental occasions, vomit, professional humiliation, but never for a single second have I been bored.”

  He noticed my expression.

  “But am I intelligent?” I said.

  “Very, very intelligent. Intellectual giant.”

  “And pretty and thin?” I said hopefully.

  “Very, very pretty and very thin—apart from being completely spherical: spherical yet brave. You’ve been absolutely heroic and magnificent the last eight months, doing this on your own with all these antics in the background. And now you’re going to do it with me, whoever’s biological baby it is. I love you and I love our baby.”

  “I love you both too,” I said ecstatically.

  —

  It was the best Valentine’s Day ever. Later that night, we ordered Chinese takeaway and ate it in front of the fire (the fire in the fireplace). And we talked and we talked and we talked and we talked about everything that had happened, and why. And we made plans for how it was going to be. We decided to stay in my flat, just for now, so as not to cause a rumpus.

  “It’s cosy,” said Mark. “And I like the cooking.”

  It turned out Mark had heard about the Sit Up Britain debacle from Jeremy, and he’d talked to Richard Finch and Peri Campos. He said what they’d done was technically lawful, but—as Peri Campos eventually conceded—not ethical and he told me what I needed to do to get the job back and maternity leave.

  And it felt very easy and simple and just like this was how it was supposed to be. It felt like coming home. And then we went to bed. And it was, Miranda would say, A. May. Zing.

  “Pregnant women don’t shag like that,” said Mark.

  “Oh yes they fucking well do.”

  FIFTEEN

  HER MAJESTY SAVES THE DAY, SORT OF

  SATURDAY 3 MARCH

  2 p.m. Grafton Underwood village hall. Result of the Grafton Underwood voting as to who would sit next to the Queen during the Queen’s luncheon on the other side from the vicar.

  Mark and I entered the village hall, via separate doors, somewhat furtively, so as not to draw attention. Mum was taking the microphone on the stage.

  “Lord Mayor, Lord Clerk to her Majesty,” began Mum, in a nervous, querulous voice, quite unlike her usual airy, bossy tone.

  “Objection!” Mavis Enderbury leapt to her feet. “That should be Clerk, not Lord Clerk.”

  “Oh my godfathers, I’m so sorry.” Mum was seriously losing it. “Anyway, here is our very own master and commander of the seas, and captain of the plucky ship of Grafton Underwood: Admiral Darcy!” said Mum, then slunk back to her seat, looking shaken.

  Mark’s father, tall, still handsome in his admiral’s outfit, strode onto the stage.

  “Right! Let’s get on. Seating plan,” he boomed. “I am happy to announce that to Her Majesty’s left will be, of course, the vicar, and to her right, as the result of our vote…”

  There were ripples all over the hall as the Admiral took out an envelope stamped with an old-fashioned dark red wax seal.

  “To Her Majesty’s right,” his face broke into a fond smile, “a woman who has worked tirelessly her entire life for this village…and whose Salmon à la King has kept us nourished for decades: Mrs. Pamela Jones.”

  “Objection!” Mavis Enderbury leapt again to her feet, face twisted angrily beneath a hatlike hairdo.

  “Could we all please think for a moment, not of ourselves, but of our Leader of Church and State—Her Royal Majesty,” said Mavis. “In our chosen Village Representative—who will be engaging Her Majesty’s right, and in royal banter—do we want a representative of our decency and family values? Or the adulterous mother of an unmarried, pregnant daughter, who doesn’t know who the father is and one of them might be black?”

  There was uproar as Mavis looked straight at me, prompting everyone to stare. Mark was heading for the microphone, but the village was already speaking for itself.

  “Shame on you, Mavis,” roared Uncle Geoffrey. “Racist and rubbish, and Bridget is a lovely girl with lovely big…”

  “Geoffrey!” said Auntie Una.

  “Look at Joanna Lumley,” said Dad, leaping to his feet.

  Everyone fell reverentially silent.

  “Joanna Lumley was a single mother and wouldn’t tell anyone who the father was for years.”

  “Good point, excellent woman,” said Penny Husbands-Bosworth.

  “Quite so. Military family,” said Admiral Darcy.

  “The Virgin Mary didn’t know who the father was!” said Mum, hopefully.

  “Yes, she did!” said the vicar. “It was God.”

  “Yes, but I bet everyone in the village was saying it was the Angel Gabriel,” said Dad.

  “Or Jesus,” I added helpfully.

  “Jesus was the baby,” yelled Mavis Enderbury.

  “The point is people gossip,” said Dad, gently but firmly. “And gossip isn’t right.”

  Mark leapt onto the stage, in full barrister mode.

  “Mr. Colin Jones has hit the nail on the head,” he thundered. “We live in a country—a country once renowned for its values—which increasingly is run by the village gossips, in the form of some aspects of the press. But here, in this village hall, with your clear rejection of a small attempt at spite, we see what it once meant, and still must mean, to be British.”

  There was the noise of general, if slightly unclear why, self-congratulation.

  “Look at Her Majesty herself,” continued Mark.

  Everyone sat up excitedly, like meerkats.

  “Look at the tabloid drubbing she endured when her family was mired in confusion and infidelity. Look how she has soldiered on, still loving her family: loyal, decent, dutiful but elastic, as all families and communities must be. We are all distracted by the glamour and shine of the evolving world. But we must stay rooted in who we are: in strength, decency, resilience, yes, but not in judgement. And I say this to you now, as, not only a son of this village, but”—he looked across at me and smiled—“as the father—”

  There were ripples all over the hall.

  “Yes, yes—whoever the biological father turns out to be, and we don’t know yet—the father of Grafton Underwood’s about to be newest grandchild.”

  Everyone cheered.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the Admiral, visibly moved but holding it together.

  “It may be unconstitutional: but let’s take another vote. All those in favour of Pamela Jones sitting to Her Majesty’s right during the postceremony luncheon?”

  Everyone raised his or her hand, including Mavis.

  “Motion carried. Pamela Jones will sit to Her Majesty’s right.”

  There was applause and cheers. Then, quite suddenly, Admiral Darcy turned to Mark and hugged him.

  “I say, steady on,” said Uncle Geoffrey.

  The old Admiral struggled with himself.

  “I love you, son,” he said. “I always did.”

  “I love you too, Father.”

  “Anyway. Jolly good. Let’s press on.”

  —

  As Mark said in the car, when we finally escaped all the tears and hugging, “The whole thing was so ludicrous that it was really hard for anyone to keep any sort of tenuous grip on reality.”

  But it’s nice to have that shared history. And, you see, Billy, this is why it means so much to me that you remember what Mark said that day. The world you’re about to enter will be a different sea, with so much to do with how many likes you get on Facebook or who knows what; where everyone is showing off rather than sharing their sadnesse
s and fears and what they really feel; and “liking” the most famous, or the richest, or the prettiest, more than the most human, or the kindest friend. You are the Grafton Underwood New Generation. And before you know it, Mark and me will be throwing Turkey Curry Buffets, Brunch Time Karaoke and trying to set you up with Una Alconbury’s granddaughter.

  SIXTEEN

  PHANTOM PREGNANCY

  FRIDAY 16 MARCH

  7 a.m. My flat. Baby is due tomorrow. Am so excited.

  SATURDAY 17 MARCH

  9 p.m. My flat. Baby still has not come.

  MONDAY 19 MARCH

  Babies: 0

  WEDNESDAY 21 MARCH

  5 p.m. My flat. Baby still has not come. Feel like toddler sent to sit on potty and failing to produce poo, while adults wait, increasingly frostily, outside bathroom door. Maybe I actually am an elephant. Maybe it’s going to take two years.

  THURSDAY 22 MARCH

  4 p.m. My flat. Baby has not come. Is getting really uncomfortable now: like having a frozen ostrich inside me.

  Maybe he’s suddenly just going to burst out like the Alien and eat his way through my stomach and loom out as a fully formed toddler asking for his iPad and yelling, “I just want to finish this levellllllll!”

  FRIDAY 23 MARCH

  7 a.m. My flat. “We can always go get a curry?” I said hopefully to Mark, as he prepared to leave for work.

  “Nooo! Not curry. I’m scarred for life by burning foam and curry. Why don’t you just get a bit more…ready.”

  —

  8 a.m. OK. Will check packing again. Maybe I need a fifth bag, just a small holdall for…Ooh, telephone!

  “Oh darling, I’m so excited. The Queen is going to be here this afternoon. I can’t believe it’s actually happening. Any sign? You know, I was thinking about you and Mark mentioning ‘William’ for the name; it’s a bit samey, isn’t it? What about Maddox? You know Shiloh is Heaven spelt backwards. Isn’t that super?”