Bridget Jones's Baby Read Online Free PDF Page B

Shazzer was banging on the bathroom door.
    “It takes two minutes, OK?” I said.
    “What if she’s pregnant with both of them? Like twins?” I heard Tom whisper loudly.
    “You can’t,” hissed Miranda drunkenly. “The first sperm blocks the second, or something.”
    “What about when someone has one black twin and one white twin?”
    “That’s different eggs but the same sperm.”
    —
    This was not how I had imagined this moment would be. I thought I would be with the square-jawed love of my life in a renovated farmhouse in the Cotswolds with poured concrete floors and shaggy rugs, possibly interior-designed by Jade Jagger.
    —
    “This is just completely ridiculous. A woman can’t have black eggs and white eggs,” growled Shazzer.
    “Speckled eggs?” suggested Tom, as I emerged from the bathroom.
    “Look, she’s got the stick.”
    “Give me that.”
    Shazzer and Tom both lunged at the stick, knocking it out of my hands. We watched as it twirled up into the air and landed gently on the carpet, then stared at it in awed wonder. There was an unmistakable blue line across the little window.
    “You can’t be…”
    “…a little bit pregnant,” finished Tom.
    “A. May. Zing,”
said Miranda.
    I couldn’t believe it.
    In the background I could hear the friends continuing:
    “But she’s been drinking and smoking.”
    “Oh my God, you’re right—she’s killed the baby.”
    “The baby’s dead.”
    “And she doesn’t know who the father is.”
    “What are we going to do?”
    —
    But none of it mattered at all. I felt like trumpets were tooting and harps were tinkling. Clouds were parting, the sun’s rays bursting through, while little birds tweeted with joy. I was having a baby.

F IVE

W HODUNNIT?

T UESDAY 26 S EPTEMBER
    9 a.m. Obstetrician’s office, London. “So, which of the times do you think I would have got pregnant on?” I said, hopefully.
    “Does it matter?” said Dr. Rawlings, a stern woman with a crisp, humourless manner.
    “Yes! Such a special moment! We want to know which one it is so we can treasure it.”
    “Well, you can’t. You’ll have to treasure both of them.”
    “But surely one date is more likely than the other?”
    “Actually, one’s a bit early, and the other’s a bit late. Are you sure there wasn’t another ‘treasurable occasion’ in between?”
    “Quite sure, thank you,” I said, primly. “So, of the two, which one would you go for?”
    “No idea: both equally likely.”
    “Have a guess.”
    “No.”
    “Just pretend you’re putting money on a horse.”
    “No.”
    “What about the scan?”
    “Ten to thirteen weeks: you’re thirteen.”
    “Will that show when the conception was?”
    “No. Now call this number to fix a date for the scan,” she said, getting up. “And you’ll be able to bring the daddy with you, won’t you?”
    Distinctly heard her adding, under her breath, “If you can work out which one he is.”
    “Just out of interest…” I burst out, suddenly.
    “Yeeees?”
    “If someone did have an element of confusion about who the father was…”
    “You need to get samples from them—blood, hair, fingernails, teeth.”
    “Teeth?”
    “No, not teeth, Bridget,” she said wearily. “Hair, fingernails, blood, saliva—all better than teeth.”
    “And if someone wanted to get the DNA from the baby?”
    “You need an amniocentesis. Which is probably a good idea, anyway, when you’re a geriatric mother.”
    “GERIATRIC MOTHER?”
    “Yes. Over the age of thirty-six you are, technically, a geriatric mother.”
    T HURSDAY 5 O CTOBER
    “Look on the bright side,” Tom was saying, as he, Shaz and Magda walked me to the amniocentesis. “You’ll be able to claim your pension and child support at the same time.”
    “This is just so stressful!” Magda was hyperventilating. “Bridget, you can’t have a baby without a father. One father.”
    “No, honestly, Magda, it’ll be absolutely fine,” I said, suddenly