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

“I went at seven,” said Mark abruptly.

“Yur, and look what happened to you,” said Magda.

—

Feeling I was about to get out of my depth, possibly by falling into a water feature, I lurched off down the steps towards the grounds, nearly breaking my ankle in the process, and sat on a bench overlooking the lake in the moonlight.

“So? Cruel, eh?” said Mark’s voice behind me.

“Yes, cruel abandonment,” I said, heart beating wildly.

“You don’t think they’d be better off with a bit of discipline, backbone, competition?”

“Well it’s all very well if you’re a tall alpha male and good at everything, but what about the chubby ones, or the confused ones, or the nutty ones? Who do they have to come home to in the evening who thinks they’re special…”

Mark sat down next to me.

“…and loves them”—he said simply—“just as they are?”

I looked down, trying to compose myself.

“You have a train in your hair.”

“I am aware of that.”

He reached forwards and extracted the train in one simple movement.

“Anything else in there? What’s this…cake?”

The old sweet, capable Mark. I so wanted to kiss him.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” he said.

“Yes. Who are you again?”

“No idea.”

“Me neither,” I said.

“I’ve known you for forty years and I’ve completely forgotten your name.”

We giggled—Dad’s old Grafton Underwood joke.

As Mark looked at me with those deep, brown soulful eyes, I asked myself, “What would the Dalai Lama do in this situation?”

—

We sprang together like unleashed beasts, and continued in that manner in my hotel room, for the rest of the night.

SUNDAY 25 JUNE

In the morning we were still ravenous for each other but also, crucially, food. There was no getting through to room service.

“I’ll go grab us something from the buffet,” said Mark, buttoning up his shirt. “Don’t you dare move.”

As he left the room, I heard a male voice in the corridor, evidently greeting him. The conversation continued, got more heated, then abruptly ended. Which was odd.

—