“Yeah, I fucked it.”
There was a brief pause to acknowledge the fuckedness of it. Then Bridge said, “Look, I really appreciate what you’re trying to do, and being kind and offering support is really nice. But is notoneof the most important things perhaps don’t be in the middle of the Millennium Bridge?”
“Not according to the website?”
“Maybe we should let go of the website, Luc?”
“It’s also saying you should take a hot bath. Or play a calming hand of cards.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Are you trying to comfort me by being deliberately useless?”
“Is it working?”
“A bit, actually.”
I put my phone away. “Okay, not to ruin my brilliant strategy, but it doesalsosay that walking around can help. And wedohave toget off this bridge, and Priya’s coming from the South Bank so”—I offered her my arm in a way that I hoped was kind and supportive rather than downbeat and snarky—“shall we?”
“Certainly, kind sir,” trilled Bridge, who wasn’t going to let being in the early stages of labour get in the way of a bit. “Ow.”
We made our way slowly over the bridge, skirting round the sort of people who were out and about at this time of the night and/or morning, which was to say, people who were working way too hard and people who were working nowhere near hard enough. I mean, like, because they had party lifestyles. Not, like, because they were unemployed or homeless.
“This is all right, isn’t it?” I asked. “The walking,” I clarified quickly. “Obviously waking you up at three in the morning to have a puppy-related crisis was not all right.”
“The walking’s good,” Bridge declared loyally. “It said on the website. And I think it was on my list too.”
“And we’ve got…um…time?”
“I assume so. The midwife sounded very relaxed when we rang her this afternoon.”
I had a feeling if we rang her now she’d be much less relaxed. But, following the advice on the website, I kept that comment to myself.
“Besides,” Bridge went on, with the air of someone trying very hard to keep up their own spirits, “it’s not like babies just pop out with no warning. If they did that, it would definitely be on the website.”
Having friends who were better people than you fucking sucked. I felt fucking terrible. I’d spent sizable chunks of my life developing new ways to feel terrible about new things and this, right here, topped the lot. Took the tea cake. Spaffed on the biscuit. “Bridge,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I’m…so, so sorry.”
As ever, Bridge poured salt in the wound by being incrediblyunderstanding. “I’m a big girl, Luc.” She paused. “Figuratively. You can’t actually make me do things I don’t want to do.”
“No, but I can… I’m… I shouldn’t help you do the things when they’re…when they’re bad.”
She gave my arm a squeeze. “Of course you should; that’s why we’re friends. A true friend is someone who’ll go along with whatever you’re doing regardless of how awful, dangerous, or stupid it is.”
“A true friend is an enabler with no self-control?”
“Yes.”
“Then good news,” I said, as upbeatly as the website had advised. “I’ve got you covered.”
* * *
About five minutes later, we were making our way along the South Bank when we were intercepted by an intense woman with bleached-blond hair. She had her sleeves rolled up on a shirt that looked so artfully ill-fitting that you had to be a very, very specific sort of person to get away with it.
“Hey, Andi,” I said. “I thought you and Theresa were at IKEA.”
She blanked that. “Hey, Luc. Priya wanted me to tell you you’re a complete arsehole.”
“He’snot,” replied Bridge with unwarranted loyalty. “He’s looking after me, because he’s my friend.”
Taking control of situations was not my forte. Figuring we were in a bit of a hurry, what with the labour and everything, I had a go anyway. “Look, I deserve this. But we should probably get Bridge to the truck.”
