Bridget Jones's Baby Read Free Page B

my many godchildren, who is three, was standing with his stomach sticking out looking sad, his lower lip wobbling. I went to him. He threw his arms round my neck and I felt something pulling at my hair.
    “My twain,” said Archie.
    “Your what??” I said, reaching up to my head. Oh shit! There was a toy train attached to my head, engine still whirring, winding my hair into it.
    “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Archie was crying even more now. “My Thomas de Tank Engine.”
    “It’s all right, sweetheart, it’s all right,” I said, trying to turn off the train.
    “Audrona!” Magda yelled. “Where in the name of arse are all the fucking nannies?”
    “Magda! I’ve got a train stuck to my head!”
    —
    There was mayhem in the foreground, while the older kids were still haring around the lake like dervishes. Eventually, the nannies appeared and took the little ones off upstairs. The bigger ones returned from the lake, exhausted, but not too exhausted for Mark’s iPhone. It was hard to watch as they clustered around him. Mark Darcy: commanding respect without seeming to try.
    —
    My memories of the rest of the occasion were somewhat confused owing to a limitless alcohol supply. I think there was line dancing. And, later, a group of us, including Mark, were standing on the terrace, many of us leaning on walls for support.
    “Blurry electronics,” muttered Magda. “Blurry Zac and his blurry friends.”
    “Never have happened if we’d sent him to public school,” said Jeremy, eyes darting back into the bar where “that woman” cast him a glance.
    “Boarding school? He’s seven years old, you bastard,” said Magda.
    “Yur. Thassjust cruel. Is blurry barbaric,” I concurred.
    “I went at seven,” said Mark abruptly.
    “Yur, and look what happened to you,” said Magda.
    —
    Feeling I was about to get out of my depth, possibly by falling into a water feature, I lurched off down the steps towards the grounds, nearly breaking my ankle in the process, and sat on a bench overlooking the lake in the moonlight.
    “So? Cruel, eh?” said Mark’s voice behind me.
    “Yes, cruel abandonment,” I said, heart beating wildly.
    “You don’t think they’d be better off with a bit of discipline, backbone, competition?”
    “Well it’s all very well if you’re a tall alpha male and good at everything, but what about the chubby ones, or the confused ones, or the nutty ones? Who do they have to come home to in the evening who thinks they’re special…”
    Mark sat down next to me.
    “…and loves them”—he said simply—“just as they are?”
    I looked down, trying to compose myself.
    “You have a train in your hair.”
    “I am aware of that.”
    He reached forwards and extracted the train in one simple movement.
    “Anything else in there? What’s this…cake?”
    The old sweet, capable Mark. I so wanted to kiss him.
    “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” he said.
    “Yes. Who are you again?”
    “No idea.”
    “Me neither,” I said.
    “I’ve known you for forty years and I’ve completely forgotten your name.”
    We giggled—Dad’s old Grafton Underwood joke.
    As Mark looked at me with those deep, brown soulful eyes, I asked myself, “What would the Dalai Lama do in this situation?”
    —
    We sprang together like unleashed beasts, and continued in that manner in my hotel room, for the rest of the night.
    S UNDAY 25 J UNE
    In the morning we were still ravenous for each other but also, crucially, food. There was no getting through to room service.
    “I’ll go grab us something from the buffet,” said Mark, buttoning up his shirt. “Don’t you dare move.”
    As he left the room, I heard a male voice in the corridor, evidently greeting him. The conversation continued, got more heated, then abruptly ended. Which was odd.
    —
    I shrugged it off and snuggled down moonily, still shag-drunk, savouring flashbacks to the night before and arranging myself prettily for Mark’s return.
    The door