Bridget Jones's Baby: The Diaries (Bridget Jones 4)

bsp; “It’s an omen,” I gabbled. “God is punishing me for being a selfish career woman and thwarting nature with contraceptive devices.”

“What are you the fuck on about?” she said cheerfully, opening the fridge. “Have you got any wine?”

“Didn’t you see? The street is full of pregnant women. It’s a multifaceted portent. Soon cows will be falling from the sky, horses born with eight legs and…”

Shazzer wandered over to the window and glanced out, pert bum tightly encased in the little black dress.

“There’s nobody down there except one vaguely hot boy with a beard. Though actually not hot. Well, not very. Maybe without the beard.”

I leapt up to the window and stared down at the empty street in confusion. “They’re gone. Gone. But where?”

—

“OK, calm, calm, lovely calm, calm,” said Shazzer, with the air of an American cop talking to her eighth gun-toting lunatic that day. I blinked at her, like a rabbit caught in headlights, then bolted out of the door and down the stairs, hearing her clattering behind me.

Hah! I thought, once out in the street. There were TWO MORE of the pregnant women, hurrying along in the same direction.

“Who are you?” I boldly confronted them. “What is the meaning of you? Where are you bound?”

The women pointed to a sign outside the closed-down vegan cafe. It said POP-UP PREGNANCY YOGA.

Heard Shazzer snort behind me.

“Right, excellent, jolly good,” I said to the women. “Have a lovely, lovely, afternoon.”

“Bridget,” said Shaz, “you are so insane.” Then we both collapsed in slightly hysterical giggles on the doorstep.

—

1.04 p.m. My car. London. “It’s fine, we’ll be early,” said Shazzer.

It was four minutes after we were supposed to be at the pre-christening drinks at Chislewood House and we were in solid traffic on the Cromwell Road. But in my new car, which you can tell to take you to places and make phone calls and everything.

“Call Magda,” I said smoothly to the car.

“You said, Courmayeur,” replied the car.

“No, not Courmayeur, fuckwit,” yelled Shazzer.

“Diverting to Flintwick,” said the car.

“No! You stupid trollop,” yelled Shazzer.

“Diverting to Studely Wallop.”

“Don’t shout at my car.”

“What, you’re sticking the fuck up for your car now?”

“Put your knickers, on. Put them ON.” Magda’s voice suddenly boomed out from the car. “You are NOT coming to a christening without knickers.”

“We are wearing knickers!” I said indignantly.

“Speak for yourself,” murmured Shaz.

“Bridget! Where are you? You’re the godmother. Mummy will smack, she will smack, she will smack.”

“It’s fine! We’re speeding through the countryside! We’ll be there any minute!” I said, glancing giddily at Shazzer.