Bridget Jones's Baby by Helen Fielding Read Free Book Online Page B

Jesus and went and drank the wheatgrass smoothie with Eduardo because he’s hotter. You see, I am a horrible person, aren’t I?”
    Mind was busily trying to turn the minuscule social gay gaffe into a random act of kindness, but then Tom crashed in with: “OK. I get it. I am a horrible person. Goodbye.”
    The phone rang again.
    “Oh, hello, darling, I was just ringing to see what you wanted for Christmas?”—my mother. Flirted briefly with throwing the cat amongst the pigeons by asking for a Bugaboo stroller, but knew she had really called to talk about something else. “Bridget, will you come to the Queen’s visit rehearsal on the twenty-eighth? Mavis is making a huge thing about family values and, as well as making
constant
little digs about me not having grandchildren, she’s trying to make out that I haven’t done as much for the village as her over the years, but I have, darling, haven’t I?”
    “Of course you have, Mum. Think of all the food! The gherkins!” I encouraged, starting to gag. “The scotch eggs! The raspberry pavlovas!”
    “Yes! The Salmon à la King! All those salmons!”
    Gaah! “You’ve been a bastion of village life, Mum,” I said. “You go sock it to that Mavis!”
    (“Sock it to”? Where did that come from?)
    “Thank you, darling. Ooh, must whizz! I’ve left gammon and pineapple in.”
    Was just recovering from the latest vomit, embracing the beloved toilet, when the phone rang again.
    Was Tom: “I forgot to ask you how it went with Mark. You see? Horrible person. Don’t deserve to talk to you. Goodbye.”
    Looked confusedly at the phone for a minute, then, thinking about the baby, decided to microwave a cheesy potato.
    —
    9 p.m. There you go, little sweetheart: cheesy potato.
    We have to tell the truth, don’t we? That’s one of the things we’re always going to do. Even if it means being very, very brave. Even if we really don’t want to.
    M ONDAY 16 O CTOBER
    Mark’s whole house was turned into a baby-welcoming committee, with flowers, baby supplies and a banner across the kitchen saying CONGRATULATIONS BRIDGET .
    Fatima was bustling about, beaming. She hugged me and then left the room with her usual discretion.
    “You mustn’t carry anything,” said Mark, taking my handbag. “Sit here and put your feet up.”
    He sat me on a bar stool at the kitchen counter and tried to lift my feet up onto another bar stool. We both laughed.
    “Look what I brought down from the attic for him. I used to love this. Look!”
    An old Scalextric car set was laid out in the—I supposed you could now call it—family room, where the comfy sofas and chairs were.
    I was laughing and fighting back tears: “She might not be ready for that STRAIGHTaway, but…”
    Mark bounded over to the fridge. “Look what I’ve got in here!”
    There were two packs of Huggies diapers.
    “I thought that was where you were supposed to keep them: so they’re nice and cool on the little bottom. No? I’m practicing. You’ll move in here, of course? The three of us? It’s as if we’ve been given a second chance! A second chance at life!”
    My dad’s words were repeating themselves in my ear. “You never go too far wrong by just telling the truth.”
    “Mark.”
    He stopped in his tracks at my tone.
    “What? Bridget, what’s wrong? The baby? Is there something wrong?”
    “No, no. The baby’s fine.”
    “Oh, thank God.”
    “It’s just…there is one tiny complication.”
    “Right, right. We can deal with anything. What is it?”
    “It’s just, I was so upset after the christening when you said you didn’t want to get back together and use up any more of my fertile years…”
    “I’m so very sorry. Believe me, I’ve been wretched about it, and torn as to whether I should contact you. I allowed myself to be swayed by Jeremy. He caught me in the hallway of the hotel, when I went out for breakfast, and said it was very wrong of me to be messing around with you at this point in your