“Super,” I said, dully, writing SHILOH on a Post-it note. “No, it isn’t. It’s Holish.”
“Don’t be silly, darling. It’s not Polish. Have you tried that cod liver oil yet? Ooh must run! The Lord Lieutenant’s here! Bridget! I’m going to actually sit next to the Queen!”
Suddenly felt I was going to cry. All those months of working and now Mum’s dream—however bonkers—had come true. “Good luck, Mum. Enjoy it. You’ve earned it. Charm the pants off her.”
9 a.m. Baby still has not come. Feel somehow fraudulent. Maybe it is a phantom pregnancy and the whole thing…Oh, goody! Phone again!
Was Magda with oddly cold tone.
“I suppose Miranda and Shazzer were the first to hear, even though it’s me that’s supported you all the way through, but Miranda and Shazzer are more fun and exciting, aren’t they?”
“What do you mean?”
“The baby. You might have told me, after everything I’ve done.”
“The baby hasn’t come,” I said.
“OH! I thought you’d crossed me off the list. But Bridget you’re a week late! You’re going to be split in two. You need to get it induced.”
“What list?”
“You have made a birth announcement list? You need to get it ready in your email. You won’t be able to pull up all those email addresses when you’re postpartum.”
—
10 a.m. Magda is right. I don’t want to be pulling up addresses and deciding what to say, when am in middle of newborn baby joy.
10.05 a.m. If alleged baby actually exists.
Noon. Right. Have pretty much got everyone’s addresses assembled now.
Mark and Bridget are pleased to announce…
12.15 p.m. Hmm, though. We’ve been keeping it low-key amongst the friends about being together till the paternity is resolved so as not to hurt Daniel’s feelings.
12.30 p.m.
Bridget is pleased to welcome into the world…
—Yuk, creepy.
12.45 p.m.
Ladies and gentlemen. Please welcome…
Nope. Sounds like an MC at the royal variety show.
How about something more upbeat?
—
1 p.m.
Sender: Bridget Jones
Subject: Baby!
It’s a boy! Bridget Jones has given birth to a baby boy, William, Harry, 7 lbs. 8 oz. Both mother and baby are doing well.
—
1.15 p.m. Sounds a bit “samey.”
p.s. Bridget died in childbirth.
—
1.16 p.m. Heeheehee. OK, SAVE.
—
1.17 p.m. Oh my God. Oh my God. Have pressed SEND ALL.
—
3 p.m. Total disaster. Both phones are going mental, ringing off the hook and texts keep pinging up every four seconds. Just opened email box: twenty-six emails.
“Congratulations!”
“The dying bit was a joke, right?”
3.10 p.m. Gaah! Doorbell.
3.16 p.m. It’s a giant bunch of flowers from Sit Up Britain.
Gaah! Doorbell again.
3.30 p.m. It’s a giant fluffy bunny from Miranda with a note saying, “It’s cute, it’s fluffy and I’m going to boil it!”
OK. OK. Calm, calm. Will simply send another group email and put it all right.
And maybe send back the flowers with a note of apology. And the bunny. Though it is really cute and does not deserve to be boiled.
3.35 p.m. God, wish the phone would stop ringing and pinging, right.
Sender: Bridget Jones
Subject: Ignore last email.
Dear all, I’m really sorry, but I haven’t actually had the baby yet. But when I do have the baby I’ll be sure to let you know when that happy time comes!
—
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?”
“I’m going to text everyone,” said Mark, fumbling in the freezer. “Someone has to be in the area.”
“Let’s get down in the street and see if we can hail a cab,” I said.
“Do we really need all this stuff?”
“Yes! Yes. I have to have tennis balls and the Popsicles.”
Mark half dragged, half carried me to the main road and then went back for the four bags. The traffic really was solid: unmoving, buses, lorries, honking and belching fumes. By some virgin-birth-style miracle, a taxi rounded a side street with its light on. Mark practically threw himself on the bonnet.
“Going somewhere nice?” said the driver, as Mark loaded the bags into the cab. “Owwww!” I yelled, at which the driver looked terrified. “ ’Ere you’re not goner give birth in me cab, are you?”
“Suck on this,” said Mark, handing me a Popsicle. “The Queen, by the way, has just arrived at Grafton Underwood village hall.”
“This isn’t a Popsicle,” I said. “It’s a frozen sausage!”
—
After twenty minutes of the driver going on and on about just having had his cab cleaned, we’d gone only a quarter of a mile and the contractions were coming every thirty seconds.
“Right. This is
hopeless. We’re going to have to walk,” said Mark.
“Great, excellent idea, sir, if I may say so, out you get,” said the cabbie, manhandling me out of his cab.
“What about my packing?” I wailed.
“Sod the packing,” said Mark, hauling the four bags into a newsagent’s and handing the baffled newsagent twenty quid.
“I’m going to have to carry you!”
He picked me up, like Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman, and then stumbled under the weight. “Oh Christ Alive, you’re enormous.”
The phone rang. “Hang on, let me put you down a sec. Cleaver!—Cleaver’s running from his flat—yes! I’m carrying her! We’re just at the junction of the Newcomen Street and the A3.”
—
We staggered along the street, both groaning, Mark frequently putting me down and clutching his back.
Then Daniel appeared, red-faced, jogging and panting.
“Cleaver,” said Mark, “this is probably the only time in my life I’ve actually been pleased to see you.”
“Right. Everyone relax. I’ll take charge. I’ll take the head, you take the feet,” said Daniel, wheezing as if he was about to have a heart attack.
“No, I’ll take the head,” said Mark.
“Nope. I started this off and…”
“Will you please. Stop. Squabbliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing,” I said, and bit hard into Mark’s hand, at which they both let go of my arms and only just caught me.
It ended up with the three of us staggering like some weird push-me-pull-you to the A&E and getting stuck in the revolving door.
Finally we managed to get out of the door and into the hospital. Daniel and Mark staggered to the reception desk, holding me between them like a sack of cheesy potatoes, and dumped me on the reception desk.
“Who’s the father?” said the receptionist.
“I’m the father,” said Daniel.
“No, I’m the father,” said Mark, just as Dr. Rawlings burst through the doors, pushing a trolley.
“They’re both the fathers,” said Dr. Rawlings, as the three of them manhandled me onto the trolley.
This is not, I thought, not for the first time in this sorry saga, how I imagined this moment would be.
EIGHTEEN
YOU MADE IT!
9 p.m. Hospital delivery room. “There you are, one absolutely perfect, beautiful, baby boy.”
Dr. Rawlings handed you to me, and I actually saw her wipe away a tear. “I never thought I’d see the day,” she said in a choked voice.
And there you were, in my arms, your skin next to my skin, not a little turkey in my stomach but a little person. You were waving your miniature fists, trying to speak to me: tiny, perfect, entirely beautiful. You looked straight into my eyes, and, I don’t suppose you remember, but the first thing we ever did was rub noses.
“Hello, darling,” I said through my tears. “Hello, my darling. I’m your mum. We made it through.”
Looked up at Mark and Daniel to see that both of them were in tears too.
“It’s just, it’s all been so emotional,” sobbed Daniel, clutching Mark’s arm.
“I know, I know,” Mark managed to get out. “Look, can you let go?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, pull yourselves together,” said Dr. Rawlings. “Never heard such a bloody drama.”
The door burst open.
“Bridget!” said Mum, pushing everyone aside to be first. “Do you know, I had just sat down next to Her Majesty when I got the call? I came straightaway. I mean, obviously, some things are more important than the Queen, but then…”
“Pamela,” said Dad. “Look. Your grandson.”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh my darling. My little boy.”
I gently handed you to her and her face crumpled. “Oh Bridget. He’s perfect.”
It was the sweetest thing. Then she said: “Could we text a picture of this to the Queen?”
Miranda burst in with a bottle of mojito mix, followed by a beaming Richard Finch. “Bridget Jones. I’m so proud of you.” He peered at me, worried for a second. “Oh, thank God, the giant boobs are still there.”
Everyone turned up. Tom and Shazzer were hugging each other and everyone in sight. Jeremy got all sentimental with Magda, putting his arm round her. “I’m so sorry, my love. It’s all going to be different now. All our babies. All those years.”
“You are still. In. The. Doghouse,” said Magda.
Just then the doors flung open again and Mark and Daniel appeared, looking nervous.
Everyone looked at them. “So?”
“We have to wait,” said Mark. Daniel reached out for Mark’s hand. Mark didn’t protest, and the two of them sat, holding hands.
“And the winner is!” said Dr. Rawlings, bursting through the doors. “Can I announce it in front of everyone or do you want to be alone? It’s rather fun, isn’t it?—like the final of The X Factor.”
“I think we’re all family, aren’t we?” I said to Mark and Daniel. They both nodded nervously.
“All right, then. The father of Bridget Jones’s baby is none other than…”
AND FINALLY…
“Mark Darcy!”
“Oh, thank Christ for that,” said Daniel as I handed you to your real daddy. “I mean, don’t take it the wrong way, Jones,” he added hurriedly, seeing my face. “Adorable, charming obviously. I just know my limitations. May the best man win!”
Mark was looking at you, bursting with love and pride. “Why don’t you ask?” he whispered.
“Daniel,” I said. “Would you like to be his godfather?”
“Well, that’s um, absolutely…” For a moment Daniel choked up, then he pulled himself together. “That’s a brave and bighearted offer. Yes, thank you,” said Daniel. “And since my godchild is a boy, you don’t have to worry about me trying to shag her when she’s twenty.”
“Right. That’s quite enough. Let’s all leave the room,” said Dr. Rawlings. “And let Mum and…Dad…finally have some time alone with their son.”
“Dr. Rawlings,” said Daniel, as everyone made their way out. “May I say that I have never in my life seen anyone look quite so sexual in a white coat.”
“Oh, you are such a naughty man,” she said, and giggled.
—
“Wait,” I said, as my dad was leaving. “You haven’t held him yet.”
Dad, or Granddad now, touched your cheek very gently.
“Oops, better not let his head fall off,” said Dad as Mark very awkwardly and nervously handed you over. Then Dad (my dad) looked down into your eyes, his little grandson’s eyes.
“Take care of him,” he said, throatily, to Mark. “And of her.”
“Mr. Jones. If I am a fraction as good a father as you have been to Bridget, then I will be…”
“He will be the luckiest baby in the world,” said Dad.
Just then your little fist flailed, hit a switch on the monitor, and knocked a glass of blackcurrant cordial over, which smashed, spilling blackcurrant everywhere. Lights flashed and the machine started emitting an urgent blaring noise as if there was about to be an airborne attack.
Dr. Rawlings rushed back into the delivery room, looking panicked, followed by everyone else.
“Like mother, like son,” bellowed Mark above the din. “Bridget?”
“What?” I yelled.
“Will you marry me?”
“Jones?” yelled Daniel, with a conspiratorial glance at Mark. “I suppose one last shag would be out of the question?”
“Yes!” I shouted, in joyful, wonderful, overwhelmed reply to both of them.
———
And that, my little darling, is how I came to be your mum.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Gillon Aitken, Clare Alexander, Sunetra Atkinson, Helen Atkinson-Wood, María Benitez, Grazina Bilunskiene, Helena Bonham Carter, Charlotte and Alain de Botton, Richard Cable, Susan Campos, Liza Chasin, Richard Coles, Rachel Cugnoni, Dash and Romy Curran, Kevin Curran, R
ichard Curtis, Scarlett Curtis, Patrick Dempsey, Paul Feig, Eric Fellner, the Fielding Family, Colin Firth, Carrie Fisher, Piers and Paula Fletcher, Stephen Frears, Jules Gishen, Amelia Granger, Hugh Grant, Simon Green, Debra Hayward, Susanna Hoffs, Jimmy Horowitz, Jenny Jackson, Simon Kelner, Charlie Leadbeater, Tracey MacLeod, Marianne Maddalene, Sharon Maguire, Murillo Martins, Karon Maskill, Dan Mazer, Sonny Mehta, Maile Meloy, Leah Middleton, Abi Morgan, David Nicholls, Catherine Olim, Imogen Pelham, Sally Riley, Renata Rokicki, Mike Rudell, Darryl Samaraweera, Tim Samuels, Emma Thompson, Patricia Toro Quintero, Daniel Wood, Renée Zellweger.
And with special thanks to Brian Siberell.
ALSO BY HELEN FIELDING
Cause Celeb
Bridget Jones’s Diary
Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason
Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination
Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy
An Alfred A. Knopf Reading Guide
Bridget Jones’s Baby by Helen Fielding
The questions, topics, and other material that follow are intended to enhance your group’s conversation about Bridget Jones’s Baby: The Diaries, Helen Fielding’s uproarious continuation of Bridget’s adventures, this time as her solo days become numbered with the arrival of an unexpected, but long-desired, new man in her life.
Discussion Questions
1. How does the pressure that Bridget feels to have a baby—and settle down in general—reflect broader issues affecting single women today? How have those concerns changed since we first met Bridget in Bridget Jones’s Diary, published in 1996?
2. What’s different and/or more challenging about dating life today, in the age of texting? How does this form of communication add humor and drama throughout the story?
3. What are some of the other social stigmas that the novel addresses through Bridget and her single friends, especially for women in Bridget’s age group?
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