“WTF?” said Miranda. “Who wrote this rubbish? Who wears two fascinators?”
“Peri Campos wrote it,” I hissed, while shots whizzed by of the fascinator-adorned heads of Camilla and Kate and Princess Beatrice and Eugenie. “Assisted by the man-bun youths who say ‘woah’ and ‘bro.’?”
“Ugh,” said Miranda. “Go with Daniel, bro.”
“But his first reaction was to get rid of my baby.”
“At least he’s coming up with the goods now, and he’s a legit shag, bro. And protests in the Maghreb, spilling over to the London embassy.”
BONG.
“Oh my God, Bridget! Look at the clip.” There was a shot of crowds milling around in white robes outside a red-mud palace, a close-up of people shouting, and in the background, making his way through the crowds with Freddo, his Oxbridge assistant, was Mark Darcy.
—
9 p.m. My flat. Feeling much better now that there is a reason for Mark’s silence. Have been reading What to Expect When You’re Expecting and We Need More Crossover Foods. Am making Crossover Food muffins with broccoli in. I found them in a cookbook full of ingenious ways of trying to make children eat vegetables. Next I’m going to do chocolate mousse made with avocados.
9.15 p.m. Shit, shit, have just reached up to get a glass from the cupboard and dropped it. There was one big bit in the muffin mixture, but I got it out. Sure it will all be fine.
10 p.m. Still no text from Mark. Looks like it’s just me and Daniel. Or more likely just me. Oh, goody, text.
DANIEL FUCKWIT DO NOT ANSWER
Still on for the big day, Jones. See you tomorrow.
MONDAY 23 OCTOBER
4 p.m. Dr. Rawlings’s office. “Ah! Is this Daddy?” Dr. Rawlings bustled into the room, with an arch glance at Daniel and myself. “Nice to finally see who you are. Right, let’s get started, shall we?”
She folded up my top to reveal my bump.
“Good God, Jones,” said Daniel. “You look like a boa constrictor who’s eaten a goat.”
“Wait!” said Dr. Rawlings, poised with the ultrasound thingy in the air and starting to smile at Daniel incredulously. “I recognize that voice. You’re on the television, aren’t you? Didn’t you do that travel show?”
“Yeeees, The Smooth Guide,” murmured Daniel, at which Dr. Rawlings went all giggly and fluttery.
“Daniel Cleaver! The Smooth Guide! Oh, we used to love it. We used to watch it every single week. We absolutely hooted when you were rolling around in the mud with those girls in Thailand.”
“Can we look at the baby, please?” I said, thinking, “Is there no area of life impervious to celebrity culture?”
“Oh my goodness, wait till I tell everyone,” Dr. Rawlings carried on. “I say, you couldn’t do me an autograph, could you?” She put down the probe and started looking around for a piece of paper. “Here! Prescription pad! Perfect! Put something funny.”
Saw a glint come into Daniel’s eye. Oh God. Was he going to draw a penis or something?
“What are you up to now, Daniel? Any new shows coming up?”
“I’m bringing out a novel,” he said, writing something on the prescription pad.
“Oh, super! Is it funny?” she asked flirtatiously.
“No, no, not at all, actually. It’s a literary thing. It’s called The Poetics of Time. It’s an existential study of—”
“Right! Better get on,” said Dr. Rawlings, clearly even more quickly bored by The Poetics of Time than I was. She glanced at the note Daniel had written for her and collapsed in giggles.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” she said, wiping her eyes and starting to rub lubricant on my stomach as if she was wiping something off the floor.
“Ding dong!” said Daniel. “Dr. Rawlings, could you possibly do that to me afterwards? My waistband has become increasingly tight of late. I seriously fear there may be something growing in there.”