Friday 17 February

 

9.30pm. Magda's House. Hiding in loo, mid Smug-Married-dinner party. Bloody Magda. Hate Magda. What was she thinking? Why would any human woman think it was a good idea to invite Mark Darcy as unheralded "surprise"? A piece of innocent Hooray-Henry teenage fun to try and fix Piggy up with Poo while letting off twelve fire extinguishers? I'm PREGNANT for God's sakes. By someone else. What did she think was going to happen? I mean, I E-MAILED HIM BY MISTAKE and told him I wanted to get back together: except it was a drunken six months old e-mail, and he pointed out coldly that I was pregnant by another man so... oh thank God: Shaz on mobile.

 

9.45pm. "Shaz!," I hissed into the phone. "You'll never guess what..."

 

"I know!"

 

"What?" I said baffled. How did she know? Had Magda called Shaz because I'd been too long in the toilet?

 

"Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes."

 

"What?" I said, suddenly panicking in case I was now completely out of the loop. Had Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes's baby been born early? Had they got married somewhere tropical rather than the Scientology Building in LA without me even knowing about it.

 

"You know she always said that she was going to be a Virgin until she got married?"

 

"Yup, yup," I said, nodding earnestly.

 

"And so she must have been impregnated artificially by someone else's sperm, probably a Scientologist."

 

"Well that was...".

 

"And you know we kind of believed it, but kind of didn't. Like we were kind of having a post modern nod in the direction of acknowledging that we were unhealthily obsessed with celebrity culture whilst being sufficiently detached to stand apart and laugh at ourselves."

 

I frowned. What was she talking about?

 

"Never mind, Bridge. The baby's eaten part of your brain. But the point is, we sort of thought it was true but didn't really. ANYWAY, what if we were right?".

 

"Er..."

 

"What if she was impregnated with Scientologists' sperm, but we didn't go far enough? What if it wasn't just any Scientologist's sperm, it was L Ron Hubbard's sperm and the baby was going to be the Scientologists' Jesus or Dalai Lama?"

 

I grasped the edge of the washbasin, for support. "But who?..."

 

"Tom told me."

 

"Tom Cruise?" I gasped.

 

There was a violent banging on the bathroom door.

 

"No. Stupid. Tom. You know, our Tom. The well-known self-obsessed pouf."

 

"Bridget! Come out of there," yelled Magda.

 

"How does Tom know?"

 

"Well, he is living in San Francisco," said Shazzer huffily. As if I'd questioned some lofty journalistic source.

 

More banging: "What are you doing?"

 

"I'm... being sick!" I burst out brilliantly.

 

"No you're not. You're way past that stage. Come out of there at once."

 

"She's sold her soul to the devil."

 

"Shaz shut up..."

 

"Bridget. I'm going to count to five and then..."

 

"I'm telling you, Bridge, it's like The Exorcist. I saw a photo in Hello! and she looked haunted."

 

I bit my hand hard. How was I ever going to figure out how to deal with Mark Darcy and the remains of the dinner party, if people kept ringing me up in the toilet to free-associate about celebrities? "Shaz, shut up," I hissed, "I'm in the toilet at Magda's dinner party and Mark Darcy's just come in."

 

"What? Fucking perverted Bastard! He's come into the toilet?"

 

"Noooo," I groaned, rolling my eyes desperately.

 

"He's come into the Smug Married Dinner Party."

 

"Well so what?"

 

"Bridget, I hope you're decent because I've got a screwdriver and I'm coming in."

 

"What shall I do?"

 

 "How the fuck should I know. Shag him?"

 

"Ah Magda! Everything all right there? Anything I can do?"

 

Gaaah! Mark Darcy was outside the door now.

 

"No! Hahahahaha!" trilled Magda. "Everything's fine, I'm just, er, picking up this screwdriver Jeremy's left lying around... What next? Shards of glass in the playpen?" Suddenly no longer hated but loved Magda for covering up for my unexplainedlengthy in-toiletness.

 

"Didn't I see Bridget when I came in? She seems to have rather vanished."

 

"Yes! Hahahahahaha! Not feeling well. Morning sickness!"

 

"I see. Would that be tomorrow morning or this morning?"

 

"Shaz, I've got to go," I hissed, while furiously pinching my cheeks in the mirror to induce radiance. I opened the door at which Mark tumbled backwards into the bathroom sending us into an ungainly tangle which ended with my mouth pressed against his neck like a vampire.

 

"Just going get you a glass of water!" shrieked Magda and hurried off.

 

Started to untangle myself but something about the familiar scent of Mark Darcy got in the way and before I knew it we were kissing each other.

 

"Hello," he said, then started kissing me again, kicking the door shut and locking it.

 

Realized after a while, that although we'd been there quite some time Magda strangely had not reappeared to hammer on the door.

 

"You look awfully sexy, pregnant." murmured Mark.

 

"I look like a kelly doll."

 

"That's what I mean. Look, what are you going to do?"

 

"Well, you know, have the baby."

 

"There are 57 stairs to your flat."

 

"Well..."

 

"And you haven't got a job."

 

"I've only been suspended," I said, indignantly. "I haven't been sacked."

 

"Is Cleaver going to do anything to support you?"

 

"Well he came to the scan, and he did buy some lovely bootees at Christmas..." I tailed off.

 

"Why don't I adopt the child?"

 

I gasped: "Like Maddox and Zahara?"

 

"What?"

 

Honestly. Sometimes is as if Mark Darcy is from another planet. "You know: Brad Pitt adopting..."

 

The mobile started vibrating on the washbasin, ‘Daniel Cleaver' flashing on the screen. Why oh why didn't I fling it in the bath? Instead I stared like a goon while a text message unfurled: ‘Jones, you little devil. What colour Mummy pants are you wearing?'

 

And before I knew it, Mark had let himself out of the bathroom and Magda’s front door and strode or stridden off into the night.