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Authors: Helen Fielding
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seat belt off him now or it’ll squash his head.”
“Oh no! Will it?” I cried, taking off the seat belt. “Have we squashed him? But how are we going to drive him home if I can’t wear the seat belt?”
We both looked at each other, panicked, like seven-year-olds.
—
Somehow we made it back to the flat, me holding the seat belt away from my bump, Daniel growing increasingly quiet.
I took the seat belt off as gently and carefully as I could as we pulled up, to ensure it didn’t ping back and squash the baby.
“You go on, up,” said Daniel. “I’ll park the car. Make sure your phone’s on in case anything else happens.”
—
I took out the phone as Daniel roared away, remembering I’d turned it off for the scan, to find a string of texts from Mark.
MARK DARCY
Bridget, I’m just getting on a plane back to Heathrow and have got your texts. Is the scan still scheduled for today? I shall try to be there if we’re on time.
MARK DARCY
Just landed. Am going to rush over. Where is the scan?
MARK DARCY
Which hospital are you in?
MARK DARCY
Bridget? Please don’t sulk. I’ve been in North Africa with no signal for four days.
—
As I walked very, very carefully towards the flat, to avoid the baby falling out, I saw a familiar figure in a dark overcoat approaching from the opposite direction.
“Mark!” I said, hurrying towards him.
His face broke into a grin. “I couldn’t find you. Didn’t you get my texts? How did it go?”
There were footsteps behind me.
“Darcy! What the devil are you doing here?” said Daniel. “We just came back from the scan, didn’t we, Bridge?”
Daniel attempted to put his arm round me. I wriggled free, but then, to my total horror, he took out the scan photo and showed it to Mark.
“What do you think? Handsome little devil, isn’t he?”
Mark didn’t look at the photo. “I would have been there, but I was in the Maghreb.”
“Ah, yes, I know it well. Little belly dancing club in Old Compton Street?”
Mark lunged towards him.
“OK, Mrs. Darcy, keep your wig on.”
“Stop it,” I said. “Don’t fight. I already have one child inside me.”
“You’re right,” said Mark. “We need to discuss this calmly, as adults. Can we come inside?”
“If only,” said Daniel, “we’d thought of asking that before.”
—
My flat. “Anyone want a cup of tea?” I said brightly, as if I was Mum in Grafton Underwood and the vicar had just popped round for some butterfly buns and a sherry.
The two men were looking at each other sideways, like U.S. presidential candidates about to kick off one of their slagging matches thinly disguised as debates.
“Darce,” said Daniel, in a kindly tone, “I understand how emasculating this must feel, after all those years of everyone saying you were firing blanks.”
Mark started pushing him towards the balcony.
“Darcy hasn’t got the soldiers,” singsonged Daniel.
“What are you DOING?” I said as Mark shoved him outside and locked the French windows.
“Maybe he’ll jump,” muttered Mark.
“Will you two stop bickering and grow up; it’s like having two children,” I said, bustling around with the tea. “Mark, let Daniel back in.” I had literally turned into Magda and was on the point of saying, “Mummy will smack, she will smack, she will smack.”
“Grow up?” said Daniel, coming back from the balcony. “You slept with both of us in frankly alarmingly quick succession like a member of Generation Z.”
I sat down wearily at the kitchen table. Was this what it was going to be like being a mother? Preparing people MEALS and GRINDING MYSELF TO THE BONE while they squabble and fight? Suddenly remembered I had forgotten to put the kettle on. Maybe I could serve them the Crossover Food muffins?
“Look, the situation is far from ideal,” said Mark. “But it is, perhaps, an opportunity for us all to look at our behaviour and responsibilities, and act with everyone’s best…”
“Right,
“Oh no! Will it?” I cried, taking off the seat belt. “Have we squashed him? But how are we going to drive him home if I can’t wear the seat belt?”
We both looked at each other, panicked, like seven-year-olds.
—
Somehow we made it back to the flat, me holding the seat belt away from my bump, Daniel growing increasingly quiet.
I took the seat belt off as gently and carefully as I could as we pulled up, to ensure it didn’t ping back and squash the baby.
“You go on, up,” said Daniel. “I’ll park the car. Make sure your phone’s on in case anything else happens.”
—
I took out the phone as Daniel roared away, remembering I’d turned it off for the scan, to find a string of texts from Mark.
MARK DARCY
Bridget, I’m just getting on a plane back to Heathrow and have got your texts. Is the scan still scheduled for today? I shall try to be there if we’re on time.
MARK DARCY
Just landed. Am going to rush over. Where is the scan?
MARK DARCY
Which hospital are you in?
MARK DARCY
Bridget? Please don’t sulk. I’ve been in North Africa with no signal for four days.
—
As I walked very, very carefully towards the flat, to avoid the baby falling out, I saw a familiar figure in a dark overcoat approaching from the opposite direction.
“Mark!” I said, hurrying towards him.
His face broke into a grin. “I couldn’t find you. Didn’t you get my texts? How did it go?”
There were footsteps behind me.
“Darcy! What the devil are you doing here?” said Daniel. “We just came back from the scan, didn’t we, Bridge?”
Daniel attempted to put his arm round me. I wriggled free, but then, to my total horror, he took out the scan photo and showed it to Mark.
“What do you think? Handsome little devil, isn’t he?”
Mark didn’t look at the photo. “I would have been there, but I was in the Maghreb.”
“Ah, yes, I know it well. Little belly dancing club in Old Compton Street?”
Mark lunged towards him.
“OK, Mrs. Darcy, keep your wig on.”
“Stop it,” I said. “Don’t fight. I already have one child inside me.”
“You’re right,” said Mark. “We need to discuss this calmly, as adults. Can we come inside?”
“If only,” said Daniel, “we’d thought of asking that before.”
—
My flat. “Anyone want a cup of tea?” I said brightly, as if I was Mum in Grafton Underwood and the vicar had just popped round for some butterfly buns and a sherry.
The two men were looking at each other sideways, like U.S. presidential candidates about to kick off one of their slagging matches thinly disguised as debates.
“Darce,” said Daniel, in a kindly tone, “I understand how emasculating this must feel, after all those years of everyone saying you were firing blanks.”
Mark started pushing him towards the balcony.
“Darcy hasn’t got the soldiers,” singsonged Daniel.
“What are you DOING?” I said as Mark shoved him outside and locked the French windows.
“Maybe he’ll jump,” muttered Mark.
“Will you two stop bickering and grow up; it’s like having two children,” I said, bustling around with the tea. “Mark, let Daniel back in.” I had literally turned into Magda and was on the point of saying, “Mummy will smack, she will smack, she will smack.”
“Grow up?” said Daniel, coming back from the balcony. “You slept with both of us in frankly alarmingly quick succession like a member of Generation Z.”
I sat down wearily at the kitchen table. Was this what it was going to be like being a mother? Preparing people MEALS and GRINDING MYSELF TO THE BONE while they squabble and fight? Suddenly remembered I had forgotten to put the kettle on. Maybe I could serve them the Crossover Food muffins?
“Look, the situation is far from ideal,” said Mark. “But it is, perhaps, an opportunity for us all to look at our behaviour and responsibilities, and act with everyone’s best…”
“Right,
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