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

“No,” I said. “Absolutely not.”

“Bridget, steady on,” said Richard, looking worriedly at my bump.

“Sit Up Britain has a long history of serious news reporting,” I said, grandly.

“Yes, I’ve just been looking at some old footage,” said Peri Campos. “Was it you I saw climbing up a fireman’s pole showing the breathless nation your thong? And parachuting into a sewerage works?”

“Well, the show has always had its—sometimes unintentional—lighter elements,” I conceded.

“And the ratings went off the scale with that thong,” said Richard. “Bloody nice arse she has.”

“Shut up,” said Peri Campos.

“But Sit Up Britain has,” I continued, rather modelling myself on Admiral Darcy, “throughout its long history, been a bastion of solid national and international news reporting on which our nation relies, and I have no intention of driving myself into a frenzy searching for bits of prurient gossip and bogus media phenomena, and turning perfectly sensible headlines into a baffling attempt at terrifying riddle-me-ree.”

“So does that mean you resign?”

“Yes!” I said. Then immediately panicked.

“Excellent result,” said Peri Campos, while Richard Finch stared at me with a look of pure horror.

“Pruning,” said Peri Campos. “Pruning is such a great concept because it leads to replenishment.”

“Replenishment? Isn’t that a lube?” said Richard.

TUESDAY 21 NOVEMBER

9 p.m. My flat. Just had series of phone calls:

“But, darling. I’ve told everyone you’re coming and it’ll be absolutely fine. We’ve brushed over the whole thing in the village and said it was a mistake and…please, Bridget, I really need you to be there.”

“Come on, Bridge. You’ve got so boring. You always said you’d never turn into a Smug Mother, and now look at you. You won’t be the only one not drinking, what about the alcoholics?”

“But, Bridget, you have to have a baby shower: Woney, Mufti, Caroline, Poo…”

“But you have to come home for Christmas! You can sleep in the spare room. Una and Geoffrey are coming and…”

“But, Jones—you’ve always been there, in my mind, as my backup position. Nobody takes me seriously. I’m washed up. I need a woman and children to take care of me in my old age. I’m going to be some middle-aged boulevardier, in a cravat, trying to get some sort of affirmation of my sexual viability from the daughters of my friends.”

“No,” I said to all of it, “absolutely not.”

TWELVE

MAKING THE BIG FROM THE SMALL

And then I nested. All through the rest of November, December and January I nested.

I nested all through Christmas. I didn’t go anywhere, I didn’t buy anything, I just nested and watched TV all Christmas Day and talked on the phone. No Grafton Underwood. No Turkey Curry Buffet. No torture about my romantic life. No, no, absolutely not. It was lovely.

It was so much easier to say no with a baby inside me, because I didn’t feel selfish, I felt like I was doing it for him.

MONDAY 15 JANUARY

3 p.m. Dad just came round to take the Magda-gift Bugaboo stroller to put in their garage: “You’ll be better off with a bit more space. When the baby comes, it’s just like a little kitten—the stuff is more trouble than the baby. Just put him next to you to sleep and change his nappy and feed him, and that’s all you need. How’s Mark, by the way?”

“Still crazy. I’ve told him to stop calling. Daniel the same. Paintings, novels, can’t take it.”

Dad said he could help me out with a bit of cash. I said no, because I know they’re a bit strapped themselves. It’s weird how calm I feel about losing my job. Maybe I’m just baby-stoned, but I have saved up a little bit: not enough to have friezes hand-painted on the walls like Magda, or buy cribs with curtains round, or a bigger flat to fit the Bugaboo stroller in. But I have enough to pay the mortgage for a few months and I don’t need much to live on—MASSIVE savings on wine and fags. Also I could always get some work as a freelance journalist or publicist, once I’m feeling a bit better. Or even a telemarketer. I could put on an Indian accent and pretend to be in Mumbai! Or one of those girls who pretends to be an eighteen-year-old busty model and does amusing porno-talk with men online.