“No,” I said. “Just as you are.”
“That’s my line.”
The smoke alarm went off.
—
“Shit, the curry.”
“You’ve made CURRY?” said Mark, genuinely frightened now. “Happy Valentine’s Day, by the way.”
“No it’s takeaway from The Pink Elephant. It’s VALENTINE’S DAY? I forgot I put it in the oven the day before yesterday to heat up,” I yelled over the noise of the smoke alarm.
Acrid fumes were belching from the oven.
Mark miraculously remembered and punched in the alarm code, saying, “Yes, Valentine’s Day,” turned on the extractor fan and opened the French windows. Once the alarm had stopped, he opened the oven. He pulled out a melted polystyrene carton with the curry in it.
“Do you know one of the things I love most about you, Bridget?”
“What?” I said excitedly, thinking I was about to be praised: for being intelligent or pretty.
“That in all the time I’ve known you I’ve never once been bored by you.”
“Oh,” I said, wondering if being not boring was good? I mean, on the scale of things people might lo
ve you for?
“There have been several near-death experiences, I’ve been on fire—both sexually in your bed and physically in your kitchen, I’ve been poisoned, I’ve been crazed with lust, furious, heartbroken, humiliated, embarrassed, ecstatic, soaked, covered in cake, confounded by your idiosyncratic, though largely valid, internal logic, insulted by drunks, forced into breaking-and-entering scenarios, fights, in legal extremis, third-world jail, embarrassing parental occasions, vomit, professional humiliation, but never for a single second have I been bored.”
He noticed my expression.
“But am I intelligent?” I said.
“Very, very intelligent. Intellectual giant.”
“And pretty and thin?” I said hopefully.
“Very, very pretty and very thin—apart from being completely spherical: spherical yet brave. You’ve been absolutely heroic and magnificent the last eight months, doing this on your own with all these antics in the background. And now you’re going to do it with me, whoever’s biological baby it is. I love you and I love our baby.”
“I love you both too,” I said ecstatically.
—
It was the best Valentine’s Day ever. Later that night, we ordered Chinese takeaway and ate it in front of the fire (the fire in the fireplace). And we talked and we talked and we talked and we talked about everything that had happened, and why. And we made plans for how it was going to be. We decided to stay in my flat, just for now, so as not to cause a rumpus.
“It’s cosy,” said Mark. “And I like the cooking.”
It turned out Mark had heard about the Sit Up Britain debacle from Jeremy, and he’d talked to Richard Finch and Peri Campos. He said what they’d done was technically lawful, but—as Peri Campos eventually conceded—not ethical and he told me what I needed to do to get the job back and maternity leave.
And it felt very easy and simple and just like this was how it was supposed to be. It felt like coming home. And then we went to bed. And it was, Miranda would say, A. May. Zing.
“Pregnant women don’t shag like that,” said Mark.
“Oh yes they fucking well do.”
FIFTEEN
HER MAJESTY SAVES THE DAY, SORT OF