Bridget Jones's Baby (16 page)

And then I nested. All through the rest of November, December and January I nested.

I nested all through Christmas. I didn't go anywhere, I didn't buy anything, I just nested and watched TV all Christmas Day and talked on the phone. No Grafton Underwood. No Turkey Curry Buffet. No torture about my romantic life. No, no, absolutely not. It was lovely.

It was so much easier to say no with a baby inside me, because I didn't feel selfish, I felt like I was doing it for him.

M
ONDAY 15
J
ANUARY

3 p.m.
Dad just came round to take the Magda-gift Bugaboo stroller to put in their garage: “You'll be better off with a bit more space. When the baby comes, it's just like a little kitten—the stuff is more trouble than the baby. Just put him next to you to sleep and change his nappy and feed him, and that's all you need. How's Mark, by the way?”

“Still crazy. I've told him to stop calling. Daniel the same. Paintings, novels, can't take it.”

Dad said he could help me out with a bit of cash. I said no, because I know they're a bit strapped themselves. It's weird how calm I feel about losing my job. Maybe I'm just baby-stoned, but I have saved up a little bit: not enough to have friezes hand-painted on the walls like Magda, or buy cribs with curtains round, or a bigger flat to fit the Bugaboo stroller in. But I have enough to pay the mortgage for a few months and I don't need much to live on—MASSIVE savings on wine and fags. Also I could always get some work as a freelance journalist or publicist, once I'm feeling a bit better. Or even a telemarketer. I could put on an Indian accent and pretend to be in Mumbai! Or one of those girls who pretends to be an eighteen-year-old busty model and does amusing porno-talk with men online.

And there is so much that needs cleaning and polishing. I mean—unbelievable. Everything I look at needs polishing. Filthy! I literally spent all day today cleaning out cupboards till Dad arrived. It was so satisfying.

And the funny thing is, now that I've shrunk life down to just me and the baby, it's so simple and happy. I don't have to worry about social arrangements or who's fallen out with whom. Every morning I have coffee and a chocolate croissant at Raouls' round the corner, and read
Buddha's Little Instruction Book
and
What to Expect When You're Expecting
and resolve to eat Crossover Foods then go to Pregnancy Yoga and try not to fart. And then I get on with my cupboards and cleaning and have cheesy baked potatoes. And sometimes there's a Dr. Rawlings's appointment. She thinks I'm doing very well and says, in her personal opinion, fathers can be a terrible nuisance.

And, slowly, the friends have all slipped into my routine. Miranda usually comes by with some breakfast on Sundays, on her way back from a club, sometimes with a cute, shag-drunk youth in tow. Tom always comes on Tuesday early evening, because he has a client just near me. And Shazzer comes on Saturday brunch time to rant about whatever the latest outrageous fucking whatever the fuck the fucking thing fucking is.

And Mum has turned her whole campaign round on the basis of inclusivity and got the two gays behind the vicarage on board. Her new thing is to keep dropping into her phone calls, “So modern to have two fathers—I don't suppose one of them's black, is he, darling?”

And Magda keeps popping round with baby equipment, which is great. She
does
keep saying, though: “I just think it's going to be really hard doing this on your own down the line, Bridge.” Then she sobs about Jeremy's infidelities. But it's fine, because I realize she doesn't want me to do anything except listen.

Everything's just so good now, because, as Dad says, “It's coming from the inside, not the outside.”

M
ONDAY 29
J
ANUARY

3 p.m.
Right. Completely ready for baby now even though not due for seven weeks. Have finished checking packing again. Is as follows:

I think that's everything. But it feels like it isn't everything.

W
EDNESDAY 31
J
ANUARY

9 p.m.
Just been reading
Buddha's Little Instruction Book
again:

“If you let cloudy water settle, it will become clear. If you let your upset mind settle, your course will also become clear.”

T
HURSDAY 1
F
EBRUARY

5 a.m.
I miss Mark Darcy.

8 a.m.
“I was waiting for this call,” said Dad. “Do you love him?”

“More than anyone in the world—I mean apart from the baby, and you, of course.”

“So what's holding you back, pet?”

“Well, first, he's now bonkers, stumbling around doing paintings in the dark; second, he's broken up with me so many times, for reasons I don't understand, that I think if I get back together with him he'll just do it again. I mean, why did he overreact so much at the engagement party and break up our whole lives? Why did he just dump me like that after the christening? Why did he send me that horrible, cold letter after the childbirth class? I'm not intellectual enough for him. Or maybe I'm too old. Never pursue a man, it will only make you unhappy.”

“You girls give men so much power,” said Dad. “Have you really thought about how he feels? Men have feelings too, they just don't go on about them all the time. You have to be nurturing of the other person's self-esteem. Talk to him. You can't just sit around waiting to be rescued.”

“But why did he keep leaving like that? Why has he gone mad?”

“You'll have to work that out for yourself, love. But I've known Mark since he was a little boy. I used to watch him, packed off to the station in his little suit and stiff collar, carrying his little suitcase. Then, when he was a teenager, he was always the quiet, spotty one in the geeky sweater in the corner: the best of all the lads, but never the one who got the girl. You'll know when you know. You'll see.”

10 p.m.
Feel like scales are falling from my eyes. Well, not literally scales. Not weighing scales. But realize I've been seeing men as all-powerful gods with the gift to decide whether I'm worthy or attractive or not, instead of human beings. I have not been thinking about what they feel. I have to…I have to…oh, I'm so sleepy.

S
ATURDAY 3
F
EBRUARY

5 a.m. My flat.
I understand, I do, I think. It's what Daniel represents.

W
EDNESDAY 7
F
EBRUARY

5 a.m. My flat.
But then I still think it was bloody brutal to send me that letter. I mean, it wasn't me that acted out in the childbirth class, it was Daniel. Why take it out on me? Blurry bastard.

T
UESDAY 13
F
EBRUARY