Bridget Jones's Baby (15 page)

“Listen, Miranda,” the Minister for Families was saying earnestly, “if we want to give children the best chance in life, the right structures need to be in place: strong and secure traditional families, two confident and able parents, an ethic of responsibility instilled from a young age.”

Something inside me snapped.

“Have you actually been out there in the dating world recently?” I said into Miranda's feed.

“Minister, have you actually been out in the dating world recently?” parroted Miranda.

“Er, well, I have been married for the last fifteen years so…”

“Exactly!” I said into the feed. “It's brutal out there. It's a war! Men are totally self-obsessed and bonkers. Have you any idea how HARD it is to get someone to even TEXT you after you've slept with them…”

“Exactly!” began Miranda. “Men are totally self-obsessed and bonkers. Have you any idea how HARD it is…”

Peri Campos grabbed my mike. “OK, wrap it up, Bridget's gone mad. Cut to next segment!” as Miranda continued:

“…after you've slept with them…”

“I said WRAP IT UP.”

“And, Minister, thank you, we're going to have to leave it there,” said Miranda smoothly. “And now!” She spun round to look fiercely into camera three. “They're small, they're elliptical killers, and they're ALL OVER YOUR SHOPS.”

News footage flashed across the screen of ambulances, hospitals, people throwing up and chickens.

Miranda looked up at me from the studio chair, holding her hands out, mouthing, “Where the fuck is it?”

“Jordan!” I hissed. “The prop!”

Man-bun youth Jordan was turning out to be even worse than Julian. The news clips were on the point of ending as Jordan crawled along the floor and handed the prop to Miranda.

“EGGS!” said Miranda triumphantly, in the nick of time, and held up a small brown egg, which promptly broke in her hand and oozed over her cream suit.

“They're, they're fragile, they're gooey…” I ad-libbed desperately.

“They're fragile, they're gooey…” parroted Miranda.

“There's one for the Christmas reel,” I continued wildly. “Jordan. Where the fuck is the egg man?”

“There's one for the Christmas reel. Where the…” began Miranda.

“…humble egg might seem harmless, if potentially messy”—I free-associated into the feed—“new findings indicate that the threat of eggs may be…Jordan, get him in the chair, get the eggspert in the chair NOW…more serious than ever previously…OK, he's here! Miranda, go back on script.”

I turned round to see Peri Campos's eyes boring into me.

“You're the one who's elliptical and all over the shop,” she said. “You were supposed to boil the egg first. I want you in my office, after the show. Cut out of the egg interview. Boring. Drop Nigeria and go to Liz Hurley's bikini line.”

7 p.m.
Sit Up Britain
loos.
Slumped on the toilet, hand on my bump. None of this is going right. A baby is supposed to bring joy and happiness into the world, but everyone just seems to be falling apart.

7.01 p.m.
Must reassure baby that everything is all right. Even though it isn't.

7.02 p.m.
It's OK, darling, It's OK, we're going to be OK. I'm sorry about all this mess but you just stay safe and cosy in there and snuggle up and I'll take care of it all and keep you safe.

7.03 p.m.
Oh God. It isn't. It really isn't. Texts have started pinging frantically.

MIRANDA

Are we fired?

SHAZZER

Bridge, I've just had a blazing row with Tom. Can I talk to you?

MAGDA

Bridge—not only do I have no nanny, but I've just found Jeremy's credit card bill and it's full of hotels and Agent Provocateur. Will you call me?

MUM

Darling, just wanted to firm up about the pre-vote debate event. Will you call me?

DANIEL FUCKWIT DO NOT ANSWER

Jones. Could you please call me back? If it hadn't been for this baby business I could have defended myself. You have broken me. You owe me some support.

PERI CAMPOS

Bridget: Where the fuck are you? In my office. Now.

7.10 p.m.
Think had better call Dad.

M
ONDAY 20
N
OVEMBER

7.30 p.m. Still in
Sit Up Britain
toilets.
“Listen, pet,” said Dad on the phone. “You can't spend your whole time trying to please everybody else. You've got a baby to take care of now, and that's what you need to do. One of the best things you can learn in life is how to say no. Or better still, ‘Absolutely not.' ”

“But what about…”

“You're exhausted. You need to take care of yourself and your baby. Can you do that if you're going to listen to Daniel going on about his book, sort out Tom's row with Shazzer, sort out Magda's row with her nanny and her husband, come to Mum's Queen visit meeting nightmare? Drive all that way on your own pregnant and have everyone be rude to you, all caught up in their own affairs and asking you difficult questions. And do whatever ridiculous Peri Campos says?”

“No.”

“Just no?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Exactly. Absolutely not.”

7.45 p.m. Peri Campos's office.
Walked in to find Richard Finch sitting, looking mortified, as Peri Campos ranted on: “She's late, she's disorganized, she spends the whole time in the loo and she's fucking up my show: Bridget Jones!”

“Look, that's not fair,” said Richard. “Bridget Jones has been the backbone of
Sit Up Britain
for…”

“Zip it, Richard, or you'll be next.”

“Are you going to fire me?” I said.

“No, my love,” she purred. “I'm not going to fire you. I'm going to get my money's worth out of you. You're going to get in here at eight o'clock every morning. You're going to go through the tabloids, and the gossip mags, you're going to forget about local council election this and Africans with flies in their eyes that, and you're going to come up with some scary, sexy stories that are going to make people actually sit up and either scream or wank but not fall asleep. You cool with that?”

“No,” I said. “Absolutely not.”

“Bridget, steady on,” said Richard, looking worriedly at my bump.

“
Sit Up Britain
has a long history of serious news reporting,” I said, grandly.

“Yes, I've just been looking at some old footage,” said Peri Campos. “Was it you I saw climbing up a fireman's pole showing the breathless nation your thong? And parachuting into a sewerage works?”

“Well, the show has always had its—sometimes unintentional—lighter elements,” I conceded.

“And the ratings went off the scale with that thong,” said Richard. “Bloody nice arse she has.”

“Shut up,” said Peri Campos.

“But
Sit Up Britain
has,” I continued, rather modelling myself on Admiral Darcy, “throughout its long history, been a bastion of solid national and international news reporting on which our nation relies, and I have no intention of driving myself into a frenzy searching for bits of prurient gossip and bogus media phenomena, and turning perfectly sensible headlines into a baffling attempt at terrifying riddle-me-ree.”

“So does that mean you resign?”

“Yes!” I said. Then immediately panicked.

“Excellent result,” said Peri Campos, while Richard Finch stared at me with a look of pure horror.

“Pruning,” said Peri Campos. “Pruning is such a great concept because it leads to replenishment.”

“Replenishment? Isn't that a lube?” said Richard.

T
UESDAY 21
N
OVEMBER

9 p.m. My flat.
Just had series of phone calls:

“But, darling. I've told everyone you're coming and it'll be absolutely fine. We've brushed over the whole thing in the village and said it was a mistake and…please, Bridget, I really need you to be there.”

“Come on, Bridge. You've got so boring. You always said you'd never turn into a Smug Mother, and now look at you. You won't be the only one not drinking, what about the alcoholics?”

“But, Bridget, you have to have a baby shower: Woney, Mufti, Caroline, Poo…”

“But you have to come home for Christmas! You can sleep in the spare room. Una and Geoffrey are coming and…”

“But, Jones—you've always been there, in my mind, as my backup position. Nobody takes me seriously. I'm washed up. I need a woman and children to take care of me in my old age. I'm going to be some middle-aged boulevardier, in a cravat, trying to get some sort of affirmation of my sexual viability from the daughters of my friends.”

“No,” I said to all of it, “absolutely not.”