Bridget Jones's Baby Read Free

ancient church, roses, the smell of cut grass, the leaves hanging heavy. There was silence, apart from birds and bees. It was beautiful as only England can be, on the annual day when the sun shines, and everyone panics in case it’s never going to happen again till the following year.
    Started teetering my way towards the church, slightly alarmed that no one was in sight. Surely they couldn’t have started the christening without the Godmother? Suddenly, there was the roar of a helicopter. I stood, with my dress and hair billowing, to see the helicopter swoop down. Bond-like, without the helicopter even touching ground, Mark Darcy leapt out and strode towards the church as the helicopter roared up and away.
    Tried to compose self, as far as possible when wearing heels in grass, and got myself into the church in the nick of time. Told myself everything would be completely fine, because had got down to my ideal weight and therefore everyone would see that I had completely changed. Felt a familiar thrill at seeing Mark’s tall, upright figure at the font. As I made my way down the aisle, I distinctly heard Cosmo say, “Is she ill? She looks like a stick insect! What happened to the…you know…boobs?”
    As I approached the font, the vicar said, “Well! Perhaps now we can make a start!” adding, under his breath, “I’ve got another three of these nightmares this afternoon.”
    “Bridget, where the fuck were you, where’s Shazzer?” hissed Magda, at which her latest christenee, Molly, started screaming. “Here—take her.” Magda handed the baby over to me—she smelt so yummy of baby powder and milk. Gratifyingly she snuggled in to my boobs—which by the way are STILL THERE—and stopped crying.
    Mark acknowledged me with the merest flicker of an eye.
    —
    Actually, the christening was fine. Have done it often enough, I
so
have it down. But immediately afterwards, instead of milling around with everyone outside, Mark shot off somewhere and disappeared.
    —
    When I got to the party, I blundered straight into a group of Smug Mothers.
    “All an Australian nanny does is text.”
    “Get an Eastern European! Audrona has a degree in Aeronautical Engineering from the University of Budapest.”
    “Oh look here’s Bridget!” cooed Mufti. “Everyone’s favourite godmother!”
    “How many is it now, Bridget?” said Caroline, stroking her pregnant bump.
    “Four hundred and thirty-seven,” I said, brightly. “Thirty-eight counting this one! Ooh must just go off and…”
    “You really should have some of your own, you know, Bridget,” said Woney. “Time’s running out.”
    For a second had a vision of myself grabbing Woney by the ears and bellowing, “Do you think it hasn’t crossed my
mind
?” but I didn’t because, ironically enough, as so often over the last decade, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
    “Do you want to feel my bump?” said Caroline, stroking her pregnant bump.
    “No, not really, thanks.”
    “No go on, feel it.”
    “No, I really need a…”
    “Feel. The bump,” she said, with startling ferocity. “Oh she’s kicking me!”
    “And frankly who can blame her?” Magda steamed in. “Leave Bridget alone you ghastly grow-bags. You’re just wishing you could have jobs and shag lithe young sex gods like she does. Come and get a drink, Bridge.”
    She swept me out of the torture chamber, then suddenly stopped in her tracks, looking ashen, and whispered, “Jeremy’s talking to that woman again.”
    “Oh my God, Magda, I’m so sorry. Is he still at it?” I said.
    “Yup. I’d better get in there. Bar’s over there. Laters.”
    —
    Walked through the crush round the bar, straight into a bunch of drunken fathers.
    “If you want a shot at Westminster at six, you have to start tutoring at three.”
    “Yars. But you’ve got another crack at eleven.”
    “No chance.”
    “Not unless they have the Latin.”
    “Bridget! Have you been ill? Where are the bloody boobs?”
    “Got