Tuesday 30th August 9st 3. Cigarettes: O: vg. Alcohol units: O: vg. Pregnancy tests: 7: bad?
(less harmful than cigarettes, surely, though more expensive and weirder
maybe?) Babies: 1? Fathers: 2. 8.45am.
Hurrah! For almost a week now have woken up, instead of in traumatised
hungover state, berating self re: all did/ate/said wrong on previous
day, suddenly wildly happy. Realise is wrong to use embryonic human
being as anti-depressant or other mood-stabilising drug, but cannot help
new-found happiness at containing miniature baby to love. Is startling
thought that all existential angst, yearning for insane men, and mood
swings over recent years might be explained by simple fact that body
wanted baby. Realise feminists would think this bad, but oh well, fuck
‘em. Silly arses. Heeheehee. Baby will be my little friend. (Oh,
though. Am not using "baybeee" in creepy, joyous way, like people
calling the Notting Hill Carnival "Carnival" . Is only because am
writing diary and do not put "the" or "I' owing to time-consuming nature
of same.) Wonder
whether will have time to go to BabyGap again in lunch hour? Oh no:
telephone! Will leave on answerphone. Will just do one more pregnancy
test to see little line again, then get ready for work. 8.47am. Was
Lord Fuckwit himself ringing unprecedentedly early to check am still on
for dinner tonight and claiming he will pick me up and drive me to Nobu.
Is not normal. Daniel does not pick me up and drive me to restaurants.
Jude and Shaz had better not have told him about baby. Do not want him
jumping on bandwagon when do not even know if he is father. Oof. Really
tired. Wish could just come home from work and go to sleep instead of
going out to dinner with insane fuckwit. Gaaah!
Have just realised something: do not care about men any more. Am like
tropical female insect which shags men to impregnate self then eats
them. Maybe will eat Daniel at Nobu. 8.50am. No.
Must be more responsible. Of course uncertain fatherhood of baby is
serious matter and must not eat one of them (though would, in some
respects, simplify matters) Am just in giddy hormonic bubble of joy.
Will not eat, but boldly level with Daniel. Definitely. 11pm. When
Daniel arrived, reason for weird chauffeur-style behaviour became clear.
Daniel had new car: sleek Mercedes with beige interior smelling of
leather. Daniel launched immediately into smirking auto-car-witter: "D'you
like the silver, Jones? Almost went for black with dark glass but
thought it would look like I had a member of the Rap Community in the
rear, so to speak. Wow, listen to that. Give it a hurry-up call with
your right foot and - whoop!" Sank passively into cream leather,
enjoying thought of havoc car-seat rather than member of Rap Community
in rear would cause to Daniel's smirk. Once
in restaurant was about to tell Daniel, but had ordered signature Black
Miso Cod marinated in 14th-century soy sauce or something.
Unfortunately, when fish arrived, felt protest in stomach as if
incredibly polite baby was saying: "Mater, might I have some cheese
instead of this? or perhaps a little warm starch?" "Everything
all right, Jones?" "Do
you think I could order some cheese," I said "Or a baked potato?" "Jones,"
said Daniel. "Nobu is a Japanese restaurant. You don't come to Nobu and
ask for a pork pie and chips. You've just ordered a great big fucking
Miso barracuda. Now eat it up, there's a good girl." Tried
to make headway with giant fish but baby seemed increasingly furious and
bad-charactered about same, eventually leaping up, yelling "I said I
wanted cheese. CHEEEEEESE. AND A POTATO. NOWWWWWWW!" Only when giant
fish was removed did baby shut up and calm down. Was
relief to finally get into car and lean back, breathing in calming smell
of soft leather. Felt slight lurch in stomach, almost as if baby had
opened one eye, considered revenge for Black Cod, then closed it again. "Everything
all right, Jones?" said Daniel for 90th time. "Yes,
fine," I said, not daring to shift position. Suddenly, as we purred into
Park Lane, it was as if baby had pressed "eject" and whole of Miso Cod
was rushing upwards through throat. Tried
to say "stop" through mouthful of vomit and waved hand up and down
following vague memory of emergency hand signals during driving test,
but Daniel was going on about the Mercedes being lifestyle choice not a
car and certainly not a statement. "It's not a bloody Ferrari, is it? It's
not saying ‘Look! I have a micro-penis'." Then
suddenly was too much sick to contain. Emitted wild noise whilst putting
hand over mouth at which black-fish vomit flew in all directions over
beige interior. Was screech of tyres as Daniel swerved across three
lanes. Realised to horror that he was pulling into the circular parking
area outside Dorchester which was milling with people in black tie. In
one way was relieved when uniformed doorman opened car door as was still
holding sick in mouth and could let it spurt on to pavement (whilst
hoping baby had not been growing in stomach in manner of Daily Mail
miracle woman). Unfortunately, however, doorman did not quite get shoes
out of way in time. Next
thing Daniel's shoes were there too. Looked up to see complex expression
on Daniel's face: bafflement? despair? loss of will to live? He held out
a cloth. I wiped my mouth with it, realising as I did it was one of his
expensive shirts. "Drop
it," said Daniel encouragingly. I froze, feeling like a pointer holding
a pheasant in its mouth. Surely he didn't want me to throw his Armani
shirt in gutter? "Drop
it," he said again in the calm, encouraging tones of an emergency worker
addressing a lunatic holding a gun. Still
holding his gaze, I let the shirt fall. "Goood," purred Daniel. "That was a good decision." He sounded so calmly reassuring almost decided to tell him about baby there and then, but then, glancing back at vomit-splattered interior, decided maybe was not the perfect moment after all. |