Saturday
November 19th After
Mark departed, immediately called Jude and Shaz who, declaring State of
Emergency, said they would be round in 20 mins. Grateful, bundled up
against cold to purchase chocolate brownies from Mr Christians. As
squeezed through bustle of Portobello Market past twinkly lights in
Woolworth's, it was getting dark and all cosy, suddenly felt rush of
happiness that impending Christmas - instead of causing traditional
stabs of pain, regret and left-outness - made me think of own baby under
(or possible on top of, in manner of fairy?) the Christmas tree. Portobello
- with its rotting vegetables, Union Jack Y-fronts and salt-of-the-earth
cheeriness - seemed symbol of harmony, humanity and joy. Sight of Yummy
Mummies in fashionable sheepskin rubbing shoulders with council-house
mums made self feel part of a worldwide embrace of Universal Motherhood. Eyes
met those of scruffily pregnant girl. Gave warm, colluding smile as she
bent towards her toddler and yelled. "Chardonnay! You fuckin', bleedin',
little cunt!" Looked
away at a rail of flailing kaftans where policeman was trying to
separate two stallholders who were yelling "He called me a fuckin'
terrorist!" "Well
he called me a Moroccan shit!" Hurried
off to Mr Christians, where felt momentarily more at home amongst those
who could afford £5 for a goats cheese crottin, then overheard: "Yar,
yar, but the question with playdates is - whose child should be
inconvenienced most? I mean, with Lucy we have to fit round Molly's
whinges, so Ned has to have his lunch late, which means he can't digest
his supper properly so he wakes in the night. And basically I think it
would be more appropriate for Lucy to deal with Molly's whingeing
problem than expect me to have broken sleep." Suddenly
felt overwhelming urge to ask assistant to open bottle of wine so I
could swig it on way home. Where in society was I going to fit in as
mother? Remembering survey saying even one drink a week can cause baby
to have spasms in womb, stumbled out boozeless, but convinced was going
to be social misfit and baby thus become obese, bespectacled and
picked-on at school. Got
home to find flat smelling Christmassy. Turned out Jude and Shaz had let
themselves in and made mulled wine, decided it was disgusting, tipped it
out and made Cosmopolitans instead. "I've
done a very bad thing," I said, starting off, as is traditional, with
self flagellation, in order to be comforted and supported. "I should
have told Mark Darcy that Daniel was the father as soon as I got the
call from the DNA clinic." "Yes,
you should," snapped Shazzer. "It's appalling to leave Mark thinking it's
him. Why didn't you?" Jude
and I looked at her, aghast. What was she thinking? Didn't she
understand why she was here? "I
couldn't, could I?" I said. "We were euphoric with reunited newly
pregnant joy. I could hardly put the phone down and say, 'sorry, you're
not the father any more. It's Daniel Cleaver. Bye'." "Of
course she couldn't," snapped Jude. "Daniel shagged Mark's fucking wife,
for God's sakes. Listen, Bridget, did Mark even ask you if he was the
father?" "No,"
I said uncertainly, wondering if this was good or bad. "Isn't
that a bit arrogant? Assuming that no one else would want to shag you?" "Arrogant?"
burst out Shaz, mercifully back on message. "It's fucking pathological.
Who the FUCK does he think he is, 'oh, oh, look at me... I'm the only
person who could possibly bring himself to shag Bridget.'?" "Bastard,
fucking bastard," yelled Jude. "It's
quite funny, really," giggled Shaz. "Do you think both sets of sperm
were slugging it out in the womb? Like fathers, like sperms?" "Shut
up, Shaz," said Jude. "The point is, what is she going to do?" Eventual
resolution was that I had to tell Daniel before I told Mark. It was
therefore resolved that I should call Daniel and and arrange to tell him
in person. This is how that phone call went: Telephone:
"Brrrring brrring." Daniel:
"Yes?" Me:
"Hello." Daniel:
"What?" Me:
"Nothing, bye." Admittedly
immature. But it wasn't exactly my fault. I mean, who answers the phone
barking, "Yes?". Anyway, two minutes later, he rang back. "Jones?
How old are you?" "It's
none of your business." "No,
no absolutely, absolutely. But you're not - just to pluck an example out
of the air - 13?" "No." "Pity,
pity. You're not of the age, then, where you might dial zero and say 'Is
that the operator on the line? Well get off it quickly, there's a train
coming'?" I
hesitated. The truth is, there was a night a few months ago when Jude,
Shaz and I got a bit drunk and... "What
I'm driving at, Jones, is did you just call me at work and say 'Nothing,
bye'?" I
paused, unsure of my ground. "Oh,
never mind. What colour knickers are you wearing? Are they those big
Mummy pants? Are you Daddy's Mummy?" For
a split second I panicked, thinking someone had told him I was pregnant. "Mummy,
Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy." "I
thought you said you were at work." "I
am." "You're
not. You're at home. I've just rung you there." "Good
Lord! You're absolutely right. I'm in bed, stark naked. How long will it
take you to get round here? Could you fasten your bunny tail to the
Mummy pants? Then you'd be a Mummy bunny." I
frowned, crossly. This wasn't the right atmosphere at all. Though
actually, it would be quite fun to go have a shag. I mean... "I'm
pregnant." Gaaaaaaah!
Gaaaaaah! I
don't know what happened. It just popped out. It was like I had
absolutely no control over my speech. There
was silence at the other end and then... a click. I’ll remember this for the rest of my life: the moment I told my baby’s father I was pregnant and he put the phone down on me. |