9st 3. Cigarettes: O: vg. Alcohol units: O: vg. Pregnancy tests: 7: bad? (less harmful than cigarettes, surely, though more expensive and weirder maybe?) Babies: 1? Fathers: 2.
8.45am. Hurrah! For almost a week now have woken up, instead of in traumatised hungover state, berating self re: all did/ate/said wrong on previous day, suddenly wildly happy. Realise is wrong to use embryonic human being as anti-depressant or other mood-stabilising drug, but cannot help new-found happiness at containing miniature baby to love. Is startling thought that all existential angst, yearning for insane men, and mood swings over recent years might be explained by simple fact that body wanted baby. Realise feminists would think this bad, but oh well, fuck 'em. Silly arses. Heeheehee. Baby will be my little friend.
(Oh, though. Am not using "baybeee" in creepy, joyous way, like people calling the Notting Hill Carnival "Carnival" . Is only because am writing diary and do not put "the" or "I' owing to time-consuming nature of same.)
Wonder whether will have time to go to BabyGap again in lunch hour? Oh no: telephone! Will leave on answerphone. Will just do one more pregnancy test to see little line again, then get ready for work.
8.47am. Was Lord Fuckwit himself ringing unprecedentedly early to check am still on for dinner tonight and claiming he will pick me up and drive me to Nobu. Is not normal. Daniel does not pick me up and drive me to restaurants. Jude and Shaz had better not have told him about baby. Do not want him jumping on bandwagon when do not even know if he is father. Oof. Really tired. Wish could just come home from work and go to sleep instead of going out to dinner with insane fuckwit.
Gaaah! Have just realised something: do not care about men any more. Am like tropical female insect which shags men to impregnate self then eats them. Maybe will eat Daniel at Nobu
8.50am. No. Must be more responsible. Of course uncertain fatherhood of baby is serious matter and must not eat one of them (though would, in some respects, simplify matters) Am just in giddy hormonic bubble of joy. Will not eat, but boldly level with Daniel. Definitely.
11pm. When Daniel arrived, reason for weird chauffeur-style behaviour became clear. Daniel had new car: sleek Mercedes with beige interior smelling of leather. Daniel launched immediately into smirking auto-car-witter: "D'you like the silver, Jones? Almost went for black with dark glass but thought it would look like I had a member of the Rap Community in the rear, so to speak. Wow, listen to that. Give it a hurry-up call with your right foot and - whoop!" Sank passively into cream leather, enjoying thought of havoc car-seat rather than member of Rap Community in rear would cause to Daniel's smirk.
Once in restaurant was about to tell Daniel, but had ordered signature Black Miso Cod marinated in 14th-century soy sauce or something. Unfortunately, when fish arrived, felt protest in stomach as if incredibly polite baby was saying: "Mater, might I have some cheese instead of this? or perhaps a little warm starch?"
"Everything all right, Jones?"
"Do you think I could order some cheese," I said "Or a baked potato?"
"Jones," said Daniel. "Nobu is a Japanese restaurant. You don't come to Nobu and ask for a pork pie and chips. You've just ordered a great big fucking Miso
barracuda. Now eat it up, there's a good girl."
Tried to make headway with giant fish but baby seemed increasingly furious and bad-charactered about same, eventually leaping up, yelling "I said I wanted cheese. CHEEEEEESE. AND A POTATO. NOWWWWWWW!" Only when giant fish was removed did baby shut up and calm down.
Was relief to finally get into car and lean back, breathing in calming smell of soft leather. Felt slight lurch in stomach, almost as if baby had opened one eye, considered revenge for Black Cod, then closed it again.
"Everything all right, Jones?" said Daniel for 90th time.
"Yes, fine," I said, not daring to shift position. Suddenly, as we purred into Park Lane, it was as if baby had pressed "eject" and whole of Miso Cod was rushing upwards through throat.
Tried to say "stop" through mouthful of vomit and waved hand up and down following vague memory of emergency hand signals during driving test, but
Daniel was going on about the Mercedes being lifestyle choice not a car and certainly not a statement. "It's not a bloody Ferrari, is it? It's not saying 'Look! I have a micro-penis'." Then suddenly was too much sick to contain. Emitted wild noise whilst putting hand over mouth at which black-fish vomit flew in all directions over beige interior. Was screech of tyres as Daniel swerved across three lanes. Realised to horror that he was pulling into the circular parking area outside Dorchester which was milling with people in black tie. In one way was relieved when uniformed doorman opened car door as was still holding sick in mouth and could let it spurt on to pavement (whilst hoping baby had not been growing in stomach in manner of Daily Mail miracle woman) Unfortunately, however, doorman did not quite get shoes out of way in time.
Next thing Daniel's shoes were there too. Looked up to see complex expression on Daniel's face: bafflement? despair? loss of will to live? He held out a cloth. I
wiped my mouth with it, realising as I did it was one of his expensive shirts.
"Drop it," said Daniel encouragingly. I froze, feeling like a pointer holding a pheasant in its mouth. Surely he didn't want me to throw his Armani shirt in gutter?
"Drop it," he said again in the calm, encouraging tones of an emergency worker addressing a lunatic holding a gun.
Still holding his gaze, I let the shirt fall.
"Goood," purred Daniel. "That was a good decision."
He sounded so calmly reassuring almost decided to tell him about baby there and then, but then, glancing back at vomit-splattered interior, decided maybe was not the perfect moment after all.
Published: 01 September 2005