living with two heterosexual parents of opposite sexes.”
“Wouldn’t want to saddle a baby with that sort of social stigma,” said Shaz. Miranda was ignoring everyone, swiping on Tinder.
“I think you lot might be the tiniest bitter,” said Mufti. “Bitter.”
“Why, because we didn’t make a materialistic grab for any solvent man in sight when we hit thirty?” said Shaz.
“No, but maybe that’s why you’re childless and single.”
“Are you the one who got varicose veins in her labia?” rasped Shazzer.
—
Whole thing erupted into a terrible shouting match. Ended up being swept away by Magda, with the new giant gift pram—a somewhat weird accessory without a baby in it—while Magda went on and on about how it was going to be fine when I got my new nanny who was a friend of
her
nanny, Audrona, who had a degree in Aeronautical Engineering.
A very beautiful girl, who looked like the sort of Eastern European model/princess Daniel would stand me up at a scan for, was heading towards us pushing the identical Bugaboo stroller.
“Nice pram!” I said, suddenly thinking the bonding over the overpriced baby accessory might catapult me into a new glamorous Smug Mother strata.
“Nice baby!” she said, in an accent, looking into my pram—then looked at me oddly, since there clearly was no baby.
“Still cooking!” I said, patting my bump. “But yours is adorable.”
The baby was indeed adorable—and yet oddly fa—
“Mama,” said the baby.
“Molly!” said Magda. “That’s my baby—what are you doing with my fucking baby?”
People were starting to stare as Magda struggled with the complex Bugaboo strapping arrangements to get Molly out of the pram, yelling, “You’ve stolen my baby!”
“No! Do not be cross, Mrs. Carew!” said the model/princess. “Audrona has job interview. She asked me to take Molly. I have master’s degree in Psychology and Early Childhood Development. She is fine, see?”
S UNDAY 19 N OVEMBER
2 p.m. My flat. Have spent most of day scouring newspapers for stories, which can turn into Peri Campos riddle-me-ree headline for bloody meeting tomorrow:
“They’re slimy, they’re creepily silent—and they’re lurking in your arugula—frogs!”
“They’re hexagonal, they suddenly change their form and they gouge out your eyes—umbrellas!”
—
3 p.m. This is hopeless. This is ridiculous. Ooh, text.
—
3.05 p.m. A miracle! It’s from Mark!
Mark Darcy
Bridget, I am mortified to hear that you are isolated and in distress and so sorry that I only just now got your message. Should I come now? Or would you like to visit for tea? I have something to show you.
—
3.10 p.m. Oh my God. Oh my God. This is wonderful. Flat is a bit messy. Don’t want to put him off and make him think am sluttish housewife. Better go round there. Wonder what he has to show me?—as the actress said to the bishop harrumph, harrumph.
T EN
T OTAL B REAKDOWN
S UNDAY 19 N OVEMBER
4.30 p.m. My flat. Just back from Mark’s house. What just happened?
I waited, nervously, on Mark’s doorstep, but this time he opened the door looking different. He was unshaven, in bare feet, wearing jeans and a very dirty dark sweater, and holding an open bottle of red wine. He looked at me strangely.
“Can I come in?” I said eventually. He looked startled by this request.
“Yes, yes, of course, come in.”
He walked through into the kitchen and straight out through the French doors into the garden, breathing in through his nose and appearing to take in the air.
I gasped. The whole place was in bohemian-style chaos. There were piles of washing up, takeout cartons, empty wine bottles, lighted candles, and—could that possibly be
joss sticks
?
“What’s going on? Why’s it all messy? Why hasn’t the cleaner been?”
“Given everyone a holiday. Don’t need them. Oh!” A wild gleam came into his eye. “Come and look.”
He started leading me into the living room. “I’ve failed at
“Wouldn’t want to saddle a baby with that sort of social stigma,” said Shaz. Miranda was ignoring everyone, swiping on Tinder.
“I think you lot might be the tiniest bitter,” said Mufti. “Bitter.”
“Why, because we didn’t make a materialistic grab for any solvent man in sight when we hit thirty?” said Shaz.
“No, but maybe that’s why you’re childless and single.”
“Are you the one who got varicose veins in her labia?” rasped Shazzer.
—
Whole thing erupted into a terrible shouting match. Ended up being swept away by Magda, with the new giant gift pram—a somewhat weird accessory without a baby in it—while Magda went on and on about how it was going to be fine when I got my new nanny who was a friend of
her
nanny, Audrona, who had a degree in Aeronautical Engineering.
A very beautiful girl, who looked like the sort of Eastern European model/princess Daniel would stand me up at a scan for, was heading towards us pushing the identical Bugaboo stroller.
“Nice pram!” I said, suddenly thinking the bonding over the overpriced baby accessory might catapult me into a new glamorous Smug Mother strata.
“Nice baby!” she said, in an accent, looking into my pram—then looked at me oddly, since there clearly was no baby.
“Still cooking!” I said, patting my bump. “But yours is adorable.”
The baby was indeed adorable—and yet oddly fa—
“Mama,” said the baby.
“Molly!” said Magda. “That’s my baby—what are you doing with my fucking baby?”
People were starting to stare as Magda struggled with the complex Bugaboo strapping arrangements to get Molly out of the pram, yelling, “You’ve stolen my baby!”
“No! Do not be cross, Mrs. Carew!” said the model/princess. “Audrona has job interview. She asked me to take Molly. I have master’s degree in Psychology and Early Childhood Development. She is fine, see?”
S UNDAY 19 N OVEMBER
2 p.m. My flat. Have spent most of day scouring newspapers for stories, which can turn into Peri Campos riddle-me-ree headline for bloody meeting tomorrow:
“They’re slimy, they’re creepily silent—and they’re lurking in your arugula—frogs!”
“They’re hexagonal, they suddenly change their form and they gouge out your eyes—umbrellas!”
—
3 p.m. This is hopeless. This is ridiculous. Ooh, text.
—
3.05 p.m. A miracle! It’s from Mark!
Mark Darcy
Bridget, I am mortified to hear that you are isolated and in distress and so sorry that I only just now got your message. Should I come now? Or would you like to visit for tea? I have something to show you.
—
3.10 p.m. Oh my God. Oh my God. This is wonderful. Flat is a bit messy. Don’t want to put him off and make him think am sluttish housewife. Better go round there. Wonder what he has to show me?—as the actress said to the bishop harrumph, harrumph.
T EN
T OTAL B REAKDOWN
S UNDAY 19 N OVEMBER
4.30 p.m. My flat. Just back from Mark’s house. What just happened?
I waited, nervously, on Mark’s doorstep, but this time he opened the door looking different. He was unshaven, in bare feet, wearing jeans and a very dirty dark sweater, and holding an open bottle of red wine. He looked at me strangely.
“Can I come in?” I said eventually. He looked startled by this request.
“Yes, yes, of course, come in.”
He walked through into the kitchen and straight out through the French doors into the garden, breathing in through his nose and appearing to take in the air.
I gasped. The whole place was in bohemian-style chaos. There were piles of washing up, takeout cartons, empty wine bottles, lighted candles, and—could that possibly be
joss sticks
?
“What’s going on? Why’s it all messy? Why hasn’t the cleaner been?”
“Given everyone a holiday. Don’t need them. Oh!” A wild gleam came into his eye. “Come and look.”
He started leading me into the living room. “I’ve failed at
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