“Pardon?” I said.
Bridge had one arm on the railing, the other wrapped around herself. “The contractions are getting stronger.”
I stared at her in actual horror. “Are you giving birth on the Millennium Bridge at half past three in the morning?”
“No, I’m going into active labour on the Millennium Bridge at half past three in the morning. I’ll only give—ow—birth on the Millennium Bridge at half past three in the morning if you keep asking silly questions instead of getting me to hospital.”
For a brief, terrifying moment I forgot how everything worked. “Ambulance?” I suggested.
“Taxi,” growled Bridge.
“Oh. Right. Um.” The how-working-ness of everything was still…not. My phone had gone from a piece of technology I used every day without thinking to a weird rock with flashing lights on it. “Taxi,” I said aloud, because I remembered reading somewhere that saying things aloud helped you to focus on them.
“Ow,” said Bridge accusingly.
I finally figured out how to app. The results were not good. “It’ll be forty minutes.”
Bridge was still doubled over. “I can’t be in labour on the Millennium Bridge at half past three in the morning for forty minutes.”
“If it helps, at the end of those minutes it’ll be ten past four.”
“No, it doesn’t help.”
“Maybe Oliver or Tom could drive—”
“Tom’s in Finchley and Oliver’s in…wherever you live now. I can’t remember, because I’m in labour.”
“Havering.”
“I’m so glad I have you with me at this precious but difficult moment.”
“Maybe it should be an ambulance,” I said, watching the approaching-taxi dot on my screen failing to approach.
“Luc, no. There are people getting shot and stabbed and overdosing on ketamine who need those ambulances.”
“Youneed an ambulance,” I didn’t not yell.
“I don’t need an ambulance. I need a ride.”
The worst thing was that if we’d been about five years younger, we’d probably have known someone with their own transport and the kind of lifestyle that meant they’d be around in Central London at nonsense o’clock in the morning. “Oh, hang on,” I said. “I’ll call Priya.”
To my guilty relief, Bridge was too busy going into labour to have much of an opinion.
“Luc”—Priya picked up on the second ring—“if you’re bothering me at 3:41 on a Sunday morning because you’re having a panic attack over a puppy, I’ll never—”
“It’s Bridge. She’s kind of maybe slightly in labour?”
“Happy for her. I’ll send flowers tomorrow.”
She hung up. I rang back.
“Luc, what the fuck?” Priya had an ambient level ofover itshe very seldom deviated from. She was deviating.
“The fuck is,” I told her. “She’s in labour. She’s going into labour right now on a bridge.”
“What about Bridge?”
“On a bridge. On the Millennium Bridge.”
