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

Sit Up Britain studio. Sat, exhausted, in the studio control room watching Miranda—immaculate in a cream trouser suit—interviewing the new Minister for Families: for all the world as if she hadn’t been shagging the guy she met in Hackney all the previous afternoon and night.

“Listen, Miranda,” the Minister for Families was saying earnestly, “if we want to give children the best chance in life, the right structures need to be in place: strong and secure traditional families, two confident and able parents, an ethic of responsibility instilled from a young age.”

Something inside me snapped.

“Have you actually been out there in the dating world recently?” I said into Miranda’s feed.

“Minister, have you actually been out in the dating world recently?” parroted Miranda.

“Er, well, I have been married for the last fifteen years so…”

“Exactly!” I said into the feed. “It’s brutal out there. It’s a war! Men are totally self-obsessed and bonkers. Have you any idea how HARD it is to get someone to even TEXT you after you’ve slept with them…”

“Exactly!” began Miranda. “Men are totally self-obsessed and bonkers. Have you any idea how HARD it is…”

Peri Campos grabbed my mike. “OK, wrap it up, Bridget’s gone mad. Cut to next segment!” as Miranda continued:

“…after you’ve slept with them…”

“I said WRAP IT UP.”

“And, Minister, thank you, we’re going to have to leave it there,” said Miranda smoothly. “And now!” She spun round to look fiercely into camera three. “They’re small, they’re elliptical killers, and they’re ALL OVER YOUR SHOPS.”

News footage flashed across the screen of ambulances, hospitals, people throwing up and chickens.

Miranda looked up at me from the studio chair, holding her hands out, mouthing, “Where the fuck is it?”

“Jordan!” I hissed. “The prop!”

Man-bun youth Jordan was turning out to be even worse than Julian. The news clips were on the point of ending as Jordan crawled along the floor and handed the prop to Miranda.

“EGGS!” said Miranda triumphantly, in the nick of time, and held up a small brown egg, which promptly broke in her hand and oozed over her cream suit.

“They’re, they’re fragile, they’re gooey…” I ad-libbed desperately.

“They’re fragile, they’re gooey…” parroted Miranda.

“There’s one for the Christmas reel,” I continued wildly. “Jordan. Where the fuck is the egg man?”

“There’s o

ne for the Christmas reel. Where the…” began Miranda.

“…humble egg might seem harmless, if potentially messy”—I free-associated into the feed—“new findings indicate that the threat of eggs may be…Jordan, get him in the chair, get the eggspert in the chair NOW…more serious than ever previously…OK, he’s here! Miranda, go back on script.”

I turned round to see Peri Campos’s eyes boring into me.

“You’re the one who’s elliptical and all over the shop,” she said. “You were supposed to boil the egg first. I want you in my office, after the show. Cut out of the egg interview. Boring. Drop Nigeria and go to Liz Hurley’s bikini line.”

—

7 p.m. Sit Up Britain loos. Slumped on the toilet, hand on my bump. None of this is going right. A baby is supposed to bring joy and happiness into the world, but everyone just seems to be falling apart.

7.01 p.m. Must reassure baby that everything is all right. Even though it isn’t.

7.02 p.m. It’s OK, darling, It’s OK, we’re going to be OK. I’m sorry about all this mess but you just stay safe and cosy in there and snuggle up and I’ll take care of it all and keep you safe.

7.03 p.m. Oh God. It isn’t. It really isn’t. Texts have started pinging frantically.