By Michael Bywater 

Memo: essential make decision re Human Rights committee by 1 Jan. NB New computer system not yet working; speak to consultants. Memo: try get tickets Bayreuth next year – apply this week. 

Chambers curiously deserted. Telephones silent. Odd chill light in the courtyard. Calm before the storm; disputes fomenting over the Christmas season, catastrophes brewing, all doubtless good for business but rather resent a) end of SAS-style operation to retrieve B. Jones's mother from clutches of barking-mad Julio and b) equally successful attempt to insert self into clutches of B. Jones. Last few days in Hintlesham Hall great fun, but chocolates in bed, cigarette-ash all over bedclothes and endless giggling telephone calls to her friends (what kind name Shazza, for God's sake?) could become an irritant if indefinitely prolonged. Also notice odd glint eye when topic London comes up, e.g: Self: "Must get back to London and get up to speed on the Carwardine case, serious miscarriage of justice, it'll go all the way to the House of…" B. Jones: "I think it's going to be great." Self: "What?" B. Jones: "London. We can go for a walk in Holland Park." 

I know for a fact she would rather be dead than go for a walk in the park. Suspect it is playing-out of some minatory women's-magazine supplement: 100 Romantic Things For Winter Lovers or some such nonsense. But impossible to discuss this sort of thing, even after two hours passionate sex, e.g. last night. B. hopped out of huge bed, alarmingly energetic, thinking I'm asleep, starts doing Birdie Dance starkers in front of cheval glass, obviously v. happy. "Those women's magazines get it all wrong," I said. B. turned round startled. "What? What do you mean?" "I mean you're enchanting when you're just natural, like this," I say. Instant gloom, peers at self in mirror, plucks at flesh, furrows brow. "So what are you saying? You're saying I'm fat? You think I'm fat. Oh God I knew it, it was just a sympathy shag, I've made an utter fool of myself", blah blah blah. End result: another two hours of quite uneccessary comforting and reassurrance. What is it about women? 

Wednesday 21 March 

Memo: collate tax papers for end financial year. Fix appointment with accountant. NB Deadline for Nelson appeal this coming Wednesday. Essential obtain his authority proceed. 

Odd phone call from B. in middle of conference with Tadenuma Corp. lawyers this morning. Told Derek say would call back. "Can't, Mister Darcy. She said it's urgent, absolutely critical, you needed to know now." Excused self, took call. B: "You know how miserable I've been these last few weeks?" Self: "What? I thought you were happy." B: "That's on the surface. Underneath I've been crying inside. Anyway, we can't see each other any more." Turns out to be my fault. Haven't said I love her enough, fall asleep after sex, had to cancel planned trip to cinema, went to Los Angeles at only 12 hours notice, didn't admire new black Joseph trousers (didn't notice new black Joseph trousers; all look more-or-less same, like barrister suits, anyway how many pairs black trousers woman need for God's sake?), assume that because think bottom fat, assume think bottom fat because bottom is fat, don't fancy her any more, worst thing man can do is stay with woman out of pity, life ruined, hope this lesson for my future, if want family life with someone will have to be caring and encouraging, promote feeling security. 

Have to remind myself what I love about B., e.g. funny, pretty, affectionate, fun in bed, childlike sense of fun in simple things etc. But where I fit in here? Sometimes seems like I am just extra in long-running sitcom: Bridget In The City. Next thing know, B. takes course, discovers true identity, takes lesbian lover, self written out of script. Is this basis long-term future for adult human beings? 

Saturday 27 April 

Dinner party from hell. Best one could have hoped for was quiet duty evening: Dr Hiromatsu & wife (big client), Geoffrey & Tristan from chambers, Judge Gregory (tiresome, querulous), etc. etc. yawn yawn. Told B. no need for her to come, would get in caterer, usual routine. Insisted coming, said was ashamed of her. Also insisted no caterers, would cook. Arrived at house 5.30 p.m. accompanied by Shazza and sleazy, cackling newspaper person, all drunk and carrying following supplies:
Complete new outfit from Joseph.
Other complete new outfit from Joseph.
River Café cookbook, Ivy cookbook, Vietnamese cookbook.
Wok.
Electric noodle-maker.
Battery-powered aquarium with life-like swimming fish.
Sprig wilted coriander. 

Asked about food. B. said were planning on shopping locally, nothing in Soho suitable, light but tantalising Italo-oriental dinner. Pointed out it now 5.42 p.m., leaving it bit late for butcher, fishmonger, etc. 

B. rushed out of room followed by Shazza, leaving sleazy, cackling newspaper person staring at me with nasty look in eye. 

5:55 pm Sound of hysterical sobbing coming from bedroom. 

6:15 pm Sound of hysterical laughter coming from bedroom. 

6:16 pm Managed to get hold of Emma at her new restaurant, reminded her of lovely fortnight on Mauritius 1995, agreed to deliver 4-course dinner plus waiter. 

7:55 pm Dinner guests arrive. Cackling newspaper person goes upstairs 

8:40 pm Dinner arrives 

8:55 pm B. arrives doing imitation of … of God-knows-what. Of a successful lawyer's wife ca. 1958. Too embarrassing to write down. All I can say is, hope this not foretaste of future. Just about tolerable being barrister but having barrister's wife wd. be unbearable. 

3:10 am B. eventually calmed down, sleeping peacefully, self utterly drained. Started with innocent remark, viz. how I preferred her when she was just being herself. Instant catastrophe. Tears, threats kill self, rage. I never loved her, was just using her, wasn't a proper relationship, wasn't going anywhere, all she wanted was husband, family, dogs, horses, big house London, bigger house country, walks in fields, straw hat, wine cellar, fulfilled old age surrounded grandchildren, great-grandchildren, peaceful death revered by all, quiet burial plot country churchyard, flowers on grave, and what was I going to do about it? Call myself a man? I was just like all the others etc. etc., didn't understand, clock ticking, soon be on shelf, everyone laugh at her, old spinster, cat, figure of pity, endless boredom into yawning tomb, might as well kill self. 

Wednesday 26 June 

Villa in Tuscany prob. bad idea. B. disappointed with pool, with arid landscape, with industrial estate visible from bedroom, with absence of good local food, with 45-mile drive to Florence, with company, with weather, with bugs, with me. Had planned pleasant fortnight – self, B., Mark & Samantha, Anthony & Julia, Richard & Jo-Jo – but turning out to be bad idea, esp. given Anthony's attack on B. this evening. "Bridget, your trouble is you have no inner life at all," he said, after she had just finished a long denunciation of Prada handbags. "This means you have no resources of your own. You have no interest in your job, no sense of the culture in which you live, no idea of your place in history. Yet trying to dismantle your self-absorption would be like trying to split the atom with a pickaxe. You seem to think of nothing but your weight, your consumption of cigarettes and booze, and what you call “relationships” which are nothing of the sort, but diversions from the emptiness of your life or, at best, appalling projections of some grisly romantic drama invented by you on the basis of the drivel you read in magazines and see on the television. You talk about commitment – which we all know means marriage, but you aren't committed to Darcy here. You aren't even committed to the relationship. You're committed to the institution. Which is exactly where you should be." 

The terrible thing is every single word he said is true. Which makes what happened next all the more inexplicable. Because I rose from my chair, grabbed Anthony by the collar of his powder-blue John Smedley polo-shirt, hauled him upright and – without really knowing what I was saying – hissed: "How dare you speak like that to the woman I devoutly hope will do me the honour of becoming the second Mrs Darcy." 

Am too stunned at own actions to think clearly. Anthony is now on his way to – oops. Must go. Bridget's signalling.