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

I whirled round. It was Richard Finch whispering with one of the man-bun youths.

“What are you two talking about?”

“Nothing.”

“Richard! I know you were talking about my boobs.”

“I wasn’t!”

“You were!”

“I wasn’t!”

“It’s sexism. It’s harassment.”

“I was just remarking on a natural phenomenon,” said Richard. “If you saw a double-decker bus which had doubled in size you’d be entitled to say something about it, wouldn’t you?”

“I am not a bus, I am a human being. Anyway, excuse me, I have to pee.”

Richard Finch suddenly had one of those rare moments w

hen a thought came into his head.

“Are you PREGNANT?” he yelled.

There was a loud silence. Turned to see that everyone was staring and Peri Campos had just come into the office.

It was all too much. The baby ejected his cheesy baked potato and cappuccino in protest and I threw up into the wastepaper basket in front of everyone.

—

8 p.m. My flat. These are the people who have been fired in Peri Campos’s “pruning.”

June on Reception (seventeen years at Sit Up Britain).

Harry the driver (eighteen years at Sit Up Britain).

Julian the floor manager. Yes, he kept forgetting to tell us we were on air, and couldn’t tell “camera right” from “camera left,” but he’d been studying the difference for twenty years.

As we all filed out of the meeting, Peri Campos called me aside.

“HR is familiar with employees getting pregnant when their jobs are in jeopardy. Though usually employees whose jobs are in jeopardy are too old to get pregnant. Anyway, don’t think you can get away with any bullshit.”

She turned back to the room. “Oy! You lot! One last thing! We’re going to start an hour earlier in the mornings.”

Honestly! Everyone knows people in the media are supposed to start late because they’re so bohemian and creative. I’ve booked the first slot at 8 a.m. for the scan on Thursday so I could be back at work by 11.

—

Oh come on, sure, it will be fine. Will be here by 9.30. Will be early!

WEDNESDAY 15 NOVEMBER

Number of texts sent to Mark: 7. Number of replies from Mark: 0.

Just called Mark’s office and got his Oxbridge assistant, Freddo.

“Arm yar,” said Freddo, in his resonant tenor. “Arm. He won’t be in the office for a couple of weeks. Off the radar.”