Bridget Jones's Baby: The Diaries (Bridget Jones 4)
Page 64
3.45 p.m. Have sent it.
3.46 p.m. Oh, though. How can I now then send them another email when the baby actually does come? I’m like the boy who cried wolf. No one will believe me.
SEVENTEEN
THE ARRIVAL
FRIDAY 23 MARCH
6 p.m. My flat. Yayy! Mark is back from work.
“God, those stairs,” he said, letting himself in, tie loosened, shirt slightly undone, all postwork and horny-looking. “Sorry I’m late, darling,” he said, kissing me on the lips. “The whole city’s gridlocked. Had to abandon the car, and take the tube. Where’s this email you’re so upset about?”
Sheepishly, I showed him the email disaster.
I love the way he just looks really quickly at something—something which totally freaks me out and bothers me for days—and, as if he’s at work, makes a very quick assessment of how important it is, and how much time it deserves, and just deals with it.
“OK. It’s just extremely amusing,” he said. “You’ve corrected the error. Don’t give it any more thought. What are all these bags?”
“My packing!” I said proudly.
“Right,” said Mark. “I was thinking, now that you’re overdue and with the stairs and everything, maybe we should cut it down a little?”
“Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!” Suddenly the worst cramp/spasm/pain I’d ever felt in my life invaded me. “Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!”
“Right, um, jolly good. Ah. I sent my car and driver away. Your car?”
“I left it at Magda’s,” I said, panicked.
“Bridget. Stop panicking. I’ll call Addison Lee. You have to be calm or—”
“Owwwwwwwww!”
“Oh, my God, oh my God,” gabbled Mark. “It’s only two minutes since the last contraction. You’re going to give birth in the car!”
“Stop panicking. Owww!”
Mark’s phone rang. He looked at it intensely.
“Bloody work!” he suddenly yelled, and threw it out of the window.
“Noooooooo!” I yelled, watching the phone about to hurtle down three stories.
We looked at each other, wild-eyed.
“Use my phone,” I said.
“OK, OK,” said Mark. “Where is it?”
“I don’t know!”
“Put your feet up, breathe.” He found the phone, groaned when he got voicemail and put it on speakerphone.
“All our customer service specialists are currently on other calls, as we are currently experiencing heavy delays owing to increased demand.”
“Ambulance?” He dialled 999. “I see, very well. City’s gridlocked,” he said, clicking off the phone, just as I was hit by another contraction. “Emergencies only. Apparently, normal childbirth isn’t an emergency.”
“Not an emergency?” I yelled. “I feel like I’m about to push an ostrich out of my body. Fuck! Can you get the Popsicles out of the freezer?”