Thursday 19 May

4.51pm. Our house.

Contemplation.

Various events in the last couple of years have, for me, underlined how life can have a bloody warped sense of humour at times.

What are the odds, for example, of two exes meeting at a memorial service and then at a christening where five years of lust delayed results in: a) fantastic sex with rubbish condoms and b) an adorable accident?

Exactly.

Our adorable accident is currently in the land of Nod in his nursery upstairs.

And since Will's birth, Mark Darcy and I have racked up 14 shattering, exhausting, exciting, emotional, heavenly months of parenting.

During that time, we've lived together, got engaged and married, sold Mark's house in Ealing, rented out my old flat in Borough, bought our new family home in Holland Park and clocked up 1,124 ecstatic shags. Not counting the post-birth times we satisfied each other without penetration . . .

Still miss my Borough pad, but Holland Park means Will's schooling will be in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. Absolutely fabulous, dahhhhling! Hope that doesn't sound too Smug Mummy but reality is these are the sort of things self has to think about now. Funnily enough, was just talking about some—

Ooooh, mobile ringing!

Oh, it's Mum.

Deep breath.

"Hello, Mum."

"Hello, darling. How's my gorgeous grandson?"

I smiled. "As gorgeous as ever. Wait until you see him, he's grown so much. I've just put him down for an afternoon nap."

"And how are the newlyweds?"

I frowned. "Who got married?" And then it hit me. "Oh, you mean us. Strange to hear ourselves described that way."

"You've only been married for two months, Bridget. This is still the honeymoon phase."

"I know, but we were living together and raising our baby long before we got anywhere near that aisle."

"You young people nowadays - you do everything backwards." She tutted disapprovingly, as if I was 13 again and she'd caught me trying to sneak out the house in ripped jeans.

"It's just the way things turned out," I said with an involuntary shrug of the shoulders. This would be hilarious if I wasn't well over 40 years of age.

"I had to wait until my wedding night before I saw what your father had hidden in his Y-fronts. The first time we played hide the sausage, he nearly put it in the wrong hole."

YUCK! Mum and Dad shagging. Yuck-yuck-yuck! Have to change the subject.

"How is Dad?"

"He's well. We can't wait to see you all next Saturday."

Glanced at the baby monitor and said, "I hope the good weather lasts for the drive up."

"Two months of being married, Bridget. Mrs Darcy - how well it sounds! Surely only a matter of time before it's Lady Darcy," Mum gushed. "Did I tell you that at our parish council meeting, Margot Pennyfeather asked about your wedding? 'A delightful thing to have my daughter married at last to Mark Darcy QC. They live in Holland Park now. Elton John has a home there. And the Beckhams,' I told her."

And now that I'm married to him, her life's mission is complete. But I'm sure she'll find another one for me . . .

"I'm looking forward to coming up, Mum. We want Will to spend a lot of time in Grafton Underwood with his grandparents."

"Oh, the little darling! Bridget, Una and I were talking yesterday . . ."

Aha. Here it comes. What haven't I done this time?

"Are you still having your periods, darling?"

What the actual fuck? She's seriously asking if I'm still on the blob?

"Mum! I can't believe—" I started to say.

"I'm just wondering if I can prepare for another grandchild. Mavis Enderbury has three."

"I know that."

"Are you and Mark trying to get pregnant again, darling?"

Bloody hell! It never ends. When I was single, I had to get a boyfriend. When I got a boyfriend, I had to get married. Now that I'm married, I have to produce a litter.

Exasperated, I said, "Mum, we're not trying to get pregnant and we're not trying to not get pregnant."

"Well, Una showed me how to do the gongling on the internet and you—"

"I think you mean googling."

"—need deep penetration positions every time you and Mark have a bit of how's your father; his little soldiers need to shoot right up next to your cervix for grandchild number two. You should really—"

"Mother! You're not The Kama Sutra. I don't need—"

"—be doing this doggy thing I saw. But don't search for the doggy position, you wouldn't believe the pictures that came up. Una and I nearly had heart attacks! That wasn't the—"

"Mother! I have to go now. Will's crying. I'll call you later. Goodbye."

I pray to anyone who's listening up there, please don't let me mortify Will in the way my mother mortifies me. Please. Pretty please.

Deep breath.

Anyway, reading back over a couple of this month's entries is what sparked my contemplation.

Thinking about it all, self has to conclude life has a fuck of a warped sense of humour at times . . .

Wednesday 4 May

4.05 pm. Hard News Studios. Hair and makeup.

Am into my third day freelancing at my old job. Got to love the irony! Must say, feels as if self has never been away.

Well, almost.

"Malice Peabody called today's interviewee 'fuckable' so that tells you everything you need to know, Miranda."

She laughed. "OMG, don't let Alice hear you calling her that, Bridge!"

"It's Malice," I countered with a grin. "Get it right."

Love being with Miranda again, but miss Will desperately and am suffering odd twinge of guilt about placing him in a nursery even if it is the best one Mark Darcy's money can buy.

"But would I be a rubbish mother or a rubbish woman?" I had asked Mark with a heavy sigh as we discussed all the options.

"Darling, if you'd like to go back to work – that's fine. And if you want to stay home with William, that's also perfectly fine," he answered. "You're not letting down the feminists among your gender just because you love our son. It's your decision and I will wholeheartedly support whichever one you ultimately make."

"So if I go back to work and put Will in a nursery, you won't be disappointed?"

"Being a working mum will not make you any less of a wonderful mother. We're both very lucky to have you."

His words warmed me. "You make it sound so easy, Mark."

"I hope that's a good thing."

"Oh, it most definitely is."

We watched our son as he tottered towards us, happily chattering away. When Will finally reached the sofa, Mark gathered him up into his arms. He kissed our child and beamed.

"Thank goodness you didn't check the expiry date of those bloody dolphin-friendly condoms, Bridget."

"He's such a gorgeous boy. Still can't believe what we made." I smiled into Mark's eyes.

"Aren't we clever?" he replied.

What we have now is a million miles away from what we had in the final troubled months of our first engagement.

It's like the difference between night and day.

Will turned out to be the missing jigsaw piece, completing our heartfelt love for each other and making us both – Mark especially - refocus our priorities.

"Five years without you. Five whole years. What a bloody, stupid arse I was," he'd told me the night we brought Will home from hospital. "I came too close to losing you forever, to losing us forever. That will never happen again," he vowed.

Knowing I had Mark's support, I signed on with an employment agency. Last week, Joanna my recruitment consultant rang to say she had a booking for Hard News. She either didn't know about the General Lu Tong fiasco or didn't care. Can only surmise commission is commission is commission.

"You'll never guess where they're sending me on Monday," I told Mark as we watched Will beat up his Paw Patrol pillow pet.

"Where?" he queried.

"Hard News."

Mark glanced away from Will to look at me. "Crikey. Will you be OK?"

"You should worry about Alice Peabody instead," I joked in a lame attempt to reassure him. And myself.

He knew what I was doing and played along. "You're right, darling. Vultures are already circling her carcass. She'll be no match for you, Bridget."

I smiled and pecked his cheek. "You have this bloody good knack of saying exactly what I need to hear, exactly when I need to hear it."

He spoils me with his love. Love being spoiled. Have a very, very, very nice husband – don't care if that makes self sound like a Smug Married.

Actions speak louder than words so to express my love and gratitude, I decided to let my body do the talking. When we shagged that night, I milked my insatiable sex-god dry.

"Christ," he gasped when I climbed off him and plopped down on the bed. "I came so hard, I can't remember my own name."

"It's Gareth Taylor," I said as we laughed and kissed. A little later, Mark moved on top of me.

"Again, Mr Darcy? Already?" I smiled and wrapped my arms around his neck.

"It's your turn to forget your name," he murmured before lowering his mouth to my boobs.

Mmmmmmmm.

That was how I decided to resume my career. Mark had made it easier for me by being his usual thoughtful self.

So here I am, Bridget Darcy - formerly Bridget Jones - former Hard News producer back at Hard News alongside Malice Peabody, Richard Finch, Miranda Levine and the rest of the crew.

Still feel guilty about leaving Will with strangers (comparatively speaking) to return to work.

But also feel a tad guilty about not wanting to leave Will with strangers (comparatively speaking) to return to work. Feel like an affront to all those women's libbers who fought for our rights.

Can't win.

However, found a workable solution. Decided to work only three days a week: no Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays or Sundays. Hurrah!

Marked my last weekend of freedom with a marvellous family outing; we took Will to the Diana Princess of Wales Memorial Playground on Saturday (We still love you, People's Singleton! Poor Princess Diana). mThe next day, as the good weather continued with blazing sunshine, we spent hours together in our garden.

Once or twice, even managed to forget I was going back to work.

But the clock ticked down and Monday arrived sooner than we both wanted. As usual, I took Will to nursery in the morning. However our new regime meant Mark had to pick him up, which he did at just a few minutes before six.

Got home after seven and immediately headed to the nursery where I found Mark changing Will's nappy for bed. "How did it go, darling?" he asked.

To be honest, my first day back probably went smoothly because Malice was on annual leave.

When I pushed open the control room door, Richard Finch boomed out a warm greeting: "Bridget bloody Jones! You're a sight for sore eyes on a miserable Monday morning. Glad you're back. C'mere."

Stepped into his embrace and gave him the tightest of hugs. "Richard, you lovely old sod. I've missed you."

"You look good. More importantly, the boobs feel good. Please tell me you're divorced now?"

"Very happily married with a son who's nearly 14-months-old," I genially replied.

"Just because you're a happily married mother doesn't mean you won't have it off with me one day. Right?"

"Wrong," I smiled. "Same old Richard. You're a sweetheart."

"'A sweetheart'? Oh, puke. Fucking friendzoned again."

I gave him a friendly poke on the shoulder. "What's been happening? What have I missed?"

His brow furrowed in thought. "Remember Lucy the floor manager? The Welsh brunette?"

"Ermmm, yes I think so."

"Alice caught her doing coke in the ladies last Christmas so she got fired."

"No-ooooooo! Little Lucy?" I cried, scandalised.

"Yep. Your old mate Cathy left just before Christmas. But I'm sure you know about that. And Alice continues to make us the Buzzfeed of TV."

Rolled my eyes. "Great."

"Last week, Miranda interviewed the train-travelling pensioner who tweeted for help after getting stuck in a toilet on the Watford to Euston service."

"Yes, she told me about that after drowning her sorrows in enough vodka shots to sink the navy."

"The less said about it, the better. But take a look at Wednesday's interviewee. This one's a good 'un."

Richard showed me the planner on his tablet. My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. I looked at him in astonishment.

"Impressive, eh?" he grinned.

"Well. That's one word for it," I responded. "I'll leave you to it. Am heading to the hot desks in case you need me, Richard."

Mind reeling, somehow got through the rest of the day knowing this week would be a huge challenge and, once again, I would have to talk to Mark.

4.25 pm. Hard News Studios. Hair and makeup.

Gossip session with Miranda during a break in our shift. Just like old times. The hair and makeup girl told us she needed the loo and popped out.

"Strange being in here and not hearing Cathy go on and on about gang bangs," I said as I watched her replacement go.

"Simone's a sweetie. She takes fuckable me and makes me look extra-fuckable."

"Is that even possible?" I smirked.

"Third day back, Bridge. How's it going?"

"It's going. And you didn't finish telling me about Michael."

"Ancient history."

"You met him last week, Miranda!"

"Too clingy. Unresolved mummy issues," she said with a shrug. "But last night I was on Tinder and two hours later, I hooked up my strap-on for this very rich investment banker who wanted—"

"To suck your dick?"

"Oh, he did that too."

"Not after you'd stuck it up his arse?" I asked, genuinely grossed-out by the thought.

"No, before. But he was so kinky that if I'd told him to, I reckon he would've sucked it after I'd fucked him."

"Urgh. Maybe you should be the one writing a book: The Scion, The Bitch and The Dildo."

"Hah! I'd make millions from my shafting exploits: The Chronicles Of Nirvana has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"And after coining it in, you could tell Malice to stick her job up her arse."

We giggled like naughty schoolgirls and then I remembered I was playing hostess later this week. "By the way, you're still coming to dinner on Friday, right?"

Miranda smoothed down her hair. "You're still not cooking, right? I'll be there."

"Oi, you bitch! I do a mean roast chicken now as long as I don't have to handle it when it's raw."

"And it's OK if I bring a guest?"

"Of course. Got anyone in mind?"

"Mr Dildo. Might give him another go after dinner," she said as she scanned her mobile.

"Please tell me you know his name, Miranda! I'm not calling him 'Mr Dildo'."

"Of course I know his name! It's Edgar . . . Or is it Edmund?"

"Miranda!"

"Edward. His name is Edward," she said with a snigger. "I like the parallels here, Bridge: I'm shagging a man who's had a dildo up his arse and you're shagging a man who's got a poker up his arse."

"You are not comparing my darling husband to one of your weirdo shags!"

"OK, OK. You're shagging your precious Mark . . . who's got a poker up his arse."

"That's better. And you're wrong about the poker; Mark's just a bit socially awkward at times."

"Ever make him wear the wig and gown in bed?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" I answered smugly.

"Yes! That's why I'm asking."

On the one hand, really want to boast to friends in deep detail about Mark's incredible sexual stamina and our amazingly passionate shags, but on the other hand, ever since Tom's "just as she is" toast years ago, am a bit more careful about info I dish out.

The male ego being what it is, one part of Mark would probably love being described as an insatiable sex-god. But if it got back to him – and knowing my friends, it wouldn't stay a secret – another part of him would probably be embarrassed.

I dusted off my skirt. "Just remember it's dinner with me and Mark on Friday so please be on your best behaviour."

"Yes, Mum. Can't wait to see your new house."

"I'm still getting used to it," I admitted. "There's so much space – you could fit my old flat in it."

"Can't wait for Friday. But before then, what's all this five minutes bollocks about? One of the biggest stories in recent weeks and we get only five minutes?"

"He gave the exclusive to the Daily Mail and they're also going to publish extracts from his forthcoming book," I told her. "The deal's said to be worth loads of money – that means he'll hold back on the goodies. Not sure how much you'll be able to squeeze out of him for Hard News."

"Don't worry, Bridge. Squeezing stuff out of men is my speciality," she said with a wicked smile.

"Dirty cow," I grinned. "He'll love that."

"Thanks for the pointer. Got any more?"

It wasn't what she said, it was the way she said it. "Are you thinking about doing what I think you're thinking about doing?"

"I most definitely am thinking about it: he's rich, he's good-looking and he's straight. What's not to think about?"

"You're incorrigible. And you give women a good name."

"Do you think you'll make an appearance in his book, Bridge?"

"God, I fucking hope not! I've had my 15 minutes of fame and it's more than enough. Anyway, it's not an autobiography. It's a tale of survival."

Miranda turned up her nose. "Who wants to read that crap? Zzzzzzzz! Yawn. Boring. I hate to go all Alice Peabody on you but I want the dirt."

"I am so not surprised."

"Give," she commanded.

"I gave!" I indignantly replied.

"You worked with him, he gave you a good shafting and he cheated on you. That's what you told me and that tiny morsel wouldn't feed an ant, Bridge."

"He's an ex who makes me laugh. What more do you think there is?"

"What's he like in bed?"

"Really bloody good. I came every single time, but sex was never the problem. He's an excellent shag and an atrocious boyfriend. Dictionary definition of an emotional fuckwit."

"Is he better than Mark?"

Absolutely not. He satisfied me sexually but he never satisfied me emotionally. From one day to the next, I never really knew where I stood with him – except sexually.

"How come everyone asks me that?" Even the two bloody men in question have asked me that.

Miranda shrugged. "Enquiring minds. You told me about the significant others in your life - it's only natural to ask who's got the biggest dick."

"That's not what you asked."

"Come the fuck on, Bridget! At the very least, it's what I implied."

"Then the answer would be me, Miss Dildo," I winked.

"Spoilsport." She rolled her eyes. "Fine. I'll wait for his book to come out. You'd better hope I don't ask him live on air."

"Malice would love that," I said. "Not long to go now. A word of warning: he's very flirty so stay focused."

At that moment, there was a quick tapping noise followed by Josh the production assistant. "Sorry to interrupt, but no comment from the Met's press officer yet, Bridget."

Miranda glanced at me quizzically.

"Police officer jailed for selling steroids to teenagers," I said in answer to her silent question. "Keep on it, Josh. I might need a live link later."

"Will do. Have you got a minute to take a quick look at the VT of the burglar who got his bum trapped in the window of the house he was attempting to burgle?"

Our gossip session was over. "See you in a sec, Miranda."

As Josh and I hit the corridor, I heard a familiar voice . . .

"Jones! You dirty, dirty bitch."