Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason Page #4

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or something... Oh, God.

- You're not...?

- I might be.

- What if I were?

- Well, I suppose I'd...

To be quite frank,

it'd be bloody fantastic.

I mean, if a little ahead of schedule.

- Are you really pregnant?

- Well, give it three minutes.

- What do you fancy? Boy or a girl?

- I dunno, it doesn't matter.

Although, I suppose I've always had

the fantasy of a son.

- Another Mark Darcy.

- Or maybe something like Huck.

Or River. Or some fabulous

Hebrew name like Noah.

Anyway, I could teach him

to play cricket and rugby

and visit him at Eton

on St Andrew's Day.

Eton?

Yes. The Darcy men have been going

to Eton for five generations.

Well, my son's not going to be

sent away from home.

Especially to some fascist institution

where they stick a poker up your arse

that you're never allowed

to remove again.

I see.

- I didn't mean you.

- No, of course not.

So what's the alternative?

Sleeping in his parents' bed,

breastfeeding until he's a teenager

and some progressive school, where the

day is spent singing Yellow Submarine?

Oh, you're absolutely right.

It's madness to allow a child to enjoy

his education or live with his parents.

What is madness is to have a child

if his parents can't have a discussion

without one shouting at the other.

It's negative.

- That's too bad.

- Yes, very sad.

Perhaps we should go out for lunch

tomorrow. Get out of the grump.

That's a good idea in theory,

but you made a family arrangement.

Oh, God.

Darlings!

I've had the fabulous idea

of inviting your parents.

Another one

of Mother's culinary triumphs.

- Everything in miniature.

- Mini treacle tart, Admiral Darcy?

No, no, thank you. The mini spotted dick

rather finished me off.

So, Mark, Bridget, when are you

two lovebirds going to name the day?

Bridget, you must want to hear

those ding-dong bells.

Well, we're certainly not thinking

about that yet. Are we, Bridget?

No. God, no.

Of course not.

Good.

Well, that's that sorted.

So, Admiral, out on the high seas.

How was it?

- Did you mean that thing you said?

- What thing?

- You know what thing.

- No, I don't know what thing.

The thing thing.

Now, let's see, there are any number

of things, um...

in an afternoon full

of all sorts of things,

so I, um...

The thing where you said

you're not, um...

That you're not,

not even thinking about, um...

What's the matter?

Let's get a drink.

I'm going to go to the loo,

then I'm going to come back.

And then we're going to be civilised.

If you have a message for Mark Darcy,

speak after the tone.

Mark, it's Rebecca. Are you there?

Obviously not.

Probably still out with Bridget.

Um... Anyway, I hope lunch

with the parents went well.

I'm sure you were dutiful

and very polite, as usual.

Er... Whatever. Anyway, look, maybe

give me a ring when you get back.

I thought I might pop round

for a nightcap.

But I suppose that's a silly idea.

Bridget's probably there.

Sleep tight.

Oh, Christ, what now?

Are you or are you not having an affair

with Rebecca Gillies?

I won't dignify that question

with an answer.

Right.

All I did was go to the loo.

Bridget!

Bridget.

That's not your coat.

Oh, right.

Oh, Bridget, what are you doing?

I read you should never date someone if

you can think of three reasons not to.

- Can you think of three?

- Yes.

- Which are?

- Well, first off, I embarrass you.

I can't ski, I can't ride,

I can't speak Latin.

My legs only come up to here and yes,

I will always be a little bit fat.

And you, you fold your underpants

before you go to bed.

- Now, hang on, that can't be a reason.

- No, it's not a reason.

But you're not perfect either.

You look down your nose

at absolutely everyone,

and you're incapable of doing anything

spontaneous or potentially affectionate.

It feels like you're waiting

to find someone in the VIP room

who's, who's so fantastic...

just the way she is,

that you don't need to fix her.

Bridget, this is mad.

Perhaps you've already found her.

Do you want to marry me?

Look, I...

You see, you can never

muster the strength...

to fight for me.

I can't believe I did that.

What do I gotta do

to make you love me?

What do I gotta do to make you care?

What do I gotta do

when lightning strikes me

Hmm

And I wake to find

that you're not there?

What do I gotta do

to make you want me?

Hmm

What do I gotta do to be heard?

And what do I say

when it's all over, babe?

Oooh-ooh

And sorry seems to be the hardest word

It's sad

So sad

Why can't we talk it over, babe?

Always seems to me

When sorry seems to be

The hardest word

Five weeks later.

Weight:
4,000 pounds.

Am enjoying a relationship with two men

simultaneously.

The first is called Ben,

the other, Jerry.

Number of current boyfriends: Zero.

Number of calls from ex-boyfriend:

You have absolutely no messages.

Not a single one.

Not even from your mother.

- Hello?

- Hello, darling.

- You haven't forgotten our lunch date?

- Of course I have.

- I'm suicidally depressed.

- Don't be silly, Bridget.

Meet me at Debenhams at twelve o'clock.

Mum... I thought we were going

to have something to eat.

Patience, please. I've got

a big surprise for you, darling.

- What?

- Don't say "what", say "pardon".

Tra-la!

- What do you think?

- Oh, my God.

Daddy and I are getting married.

- You're already married.

- We're doing it again.

Reaffirming our vows.

You are going to be a bridesmaid,

and absolutely everything

is going to be lavender.

And when I say everything, I mean...

...everything.

Oh, God, I'm never going to get married

and my sodding mum and dad

are doing it twice.

No more candlelight

No more romance

- No more small talk...

- Bloody know-it-all.

New York:
The Big, Juicy Apple.

The city that never sleeps

with the same person two nights running.

My favourite place in America, where Sex

And The City isn't just a programme,

it's a promise.

Morning, Rach.

Sorry.

Oh, cheer up, misery guts.

I have good news for you.

Sure, right.

What's the angle?

I interview some rocket scientist

while he looks through my skirt

with X-ray glasses?

No.

Although that is a bloody good idea.

No. The fact is The Smooth Guide

is doing very well with women,

but the network want us to cast

a wider net and use a Smooth Guide-ess.

Me? With Daniel Cleaver?

It's the next logical step.

I think Thailand is first on the list.

No. I won't do it.

Not now.

Not in a million years from now.

- Excuse me?

- I am a top television journalist,

not some boorish bint in a bikini.

Really? Strong words from somebody

who doesn't know where Germany is.

Who told you that?

Cleaver. He said he couldn't be expected

to go out with someone

who thought Iran was David Bowie's wife,

and who didn't know where Germany was.

Daniel Cleaver is a deceitful, sexist,

disgusting specimen of humanity,

that I wouldn't share a lift with,

let alone a job.

Come on, Jones, there must have been

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