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

“BONG,” went the headline theme, urgent scuttling news music in the background, implying that Sit Up Britain minions were scouring for news, antlike, all over the hot spots of the world, when in fact everyone was just arseing around talking about sex in the office.

“Binge drinking!” chirped Miranda, slightly panicked, then clicking into her crisp newsreader voice. “A serious threat to our young girls, or just good old-fashioned fun?”

BONG. A clip flashed up of drunken girls falling out of a pub.

“Do you think it’s because I’m of a certain age?” I whispered into Miranda’s earpiece.

“No, it’s because he’s an emotional retard!” said Miranda, flashing up on the nation’s screens again. “And now Sir Anthony Hopkins…”

“…extends his ever-extending range,” I—thinking on my feet—said into her feed.

“…extends his ever-extending range,” said Miranda, over a shot of an empty-looking chair where Anthony Hopkins was supposed to be for his “Hello!” shot.

“…through the full range of actoring emotions,” I finished for her desperately.

“…through the FULL RANGE of actoring emotions,” Miranda said into the camera.

BONG.

“And finally: What makes men gay? A new finding points to the womb environment.”

“What makes fuckwits fuckwits, more like,” said Miranda, leaning back in her chair, thinking the clip had started when it hadn’t, quite.

“Bridget! Miranda!” Richard Finch—my longtime boss—burst into the control room. “I’ve told you not to talk between the effing bongs. This is a total fucking shambles, and where’s Anthony Hopkins?”

I panicked. “Shit! Where is he? Where’s Anthony Hopkins?” The news clip was ending and there was no Anthony Hopkins.

“Get Anthony Hopkins in the chair,” I rasped into Julian the floor manager’s feed.

“And now, fresh from location, our next guest…” said Miranda, brightly.

“Spread, Miranda, spread,” I hissed.

I spotted Anthony Hopkins, grey-haired in a suit, wandering distractedly round the studio.

“Julian, he’s there, camera left, I mean right, whatever, behind the chair.”

“Knight of the realm…” continued Miranda.

“Get him in the chair. Get Anthony effing Hopkins in the chair now!” I said, like an angry alpha female whose taxi has taken her on a route she doesn’t care for.

“National treasure,” Miranda was ad-libbing wildly. “Oscar-honoured, flesh-eating…”

The floor manager was rushing Anthony Hopkins into the chair, the soundman miking him up as they went.

“National treasure I cannot stress enough times, actor, time-honoured, Sir Anthony…”

It wasn’t Anthony Hopkins.

“Hopkins! Sir Anthony!” Miranda said, brightly, even though it clearly wasn’t. “Has Hannibal Lecter dogged you throughout your career?”

“Actually, I’m here to talk about the possible gay gene in the womb environment,” said the man, as Sir Anthony Hopkins loomed up behind Miranda, doing his Hannibal Lecter flesh-eating face.

—

Afterwards, just as Miranda flopped down next to me in the control room, saying, “Jesus, who do you have to screw to get a mojito round here?” Richard Finch threw open the door, gave one of his looks and said, “Bridget! Miranda! This is Peri Campos, our new network controller.” He gestured to a high-heeled woman behind him. “And these are the systems analysis team who have been observing our show today.” A group of people shuffled into the small control room.

“As they will for the next four weeks, looking for where our staffing cuts can most effectively be made,” finished Peri Campos, who was very young, wearing some sort of designer bondage outfit, and surrounded by youths sporting beards and man-buns. “Pruning,” she continued. “I love that word. It kind of brings a rush of blood to my teeth.”