“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.”
THURSDAY 5 OCTOBER
“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 retching.
“Darling, anything we can do to help?” said Tom.
“Thanks, Tom. Could you get me a baked potato? Oh, and a chocolate croissant and some bacon. I’m scared; I don’t want a great big needle inside me.”
“Look, the whole thing’s completely unnecessary anyway,” said Shaz. “If it starts dragging you towards every attractive woman you pass, you’ll know it’s Daniel’s. And if it feels like it’s got a poker up its arse, it’s Mark Darcy’s.”