Another reread and I still can't cross anything off. Fucking fuck. Fuck. Fucketty fuck. Fuck.

Went to the bookshelf and selected two of my latest self-help books: How To Not Commit To Him When He Does Not Commit To You and When The Other Woman Is His Job. Flicked through a couple of chapters hoping for some answers.

Still none the bloody wiser.

Just before midnight, heard a key in the lock. Knew it was Mark so I kept my eyes fixed on the TV. The door opened, he stopped by the coat rack, footsteps and then—

"Hello, darling." Mark dropped his briefcase, loosened his tie and plopped down next to me. "How was your party? Did you have a good time?"

Assumed air of dignified hauteur. "It was OK."

"Good," he said and pecked my cheek.

Told self to keep calm – and carry on. "I'm just glad it was our office party because I knew everyone there. Won't think about the alternative."

"What alternative?"

Turned away from the TV and looked into his eyes. "The alternative is some other kind of party where I don't know anyone and you cancel on me, yet again."

He grimaced. "I'm so sorry. I had every intention of being there tonight, but—"

"There's always a 'but' these days," I huffed. "I ate alone in McDonald's last night. Remember?"

"Bridget, you're cross. Justifiably so. I'll make it up to you and—"

"Yes, I'm sure you will. Nothing I haven't heard before. Nothing I probably won't hear again."

He caught the exasperated tone in my voice. "Darling, about the case; the journalist in question is on an extremely worthy and dangerous assignment. His situation is undeniably desperate. It's very important that we . . ."

Dedication. Often above and beyond the line of duty. It's why Mark Darcy deserves his reputation as a brilliant human rights barrister. Tom, Jude and Shazzer think he's a bloody decent guy. But they also think he's got a poker up his arse: reserved, repressed and as stuffily English as his court wig and designer Oxfords. Thing is, that's not the full story.

Mark was still speaking, still trying to explain. ". . . let you down, but I promise I did my very best to be with you tonight. You were on my mind every minute I was away from you in that . . ."

I was hearing him, but it's hard to listen when you know every line of the recycled script.

Strange to think I'm the only person on this entire planet who sees the very real Mark Darcy, the passionate, red-blooded man underneath all the haughtiness. The Mark who wages a constant battle to control feelings bubbling beneath the surface. The caring, sweet, dependable Mark who loves me as I really am. The Mark who shags the living daylights out of me.

He'd stopped speaking. On cue, I said: "I know your work is important, but it's just that—" I sighed. Couldn't say it. Couldn't bring myself to say everything that was on my mind – that had been on my mind for months.

"Yes?" he prompted.

"It's just that I was looking forward to being at that party with you." It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the full story. "I wore this dress especially for you."

"And you look incredibly beautiful and sexy in it, as always." Mark slipped a hand up my leg and nuzzled my neck. "What are you wearing underneath it? Black lace lingerie?" he murmured throatily.

"How very dare you," I groaned as his hand pressed against the inside of my thigh. "How dare you use sex against me when you know I'm pissed off with you."

"Are you pissed off enough for angry sex?" he asked and waggled his eyebrows.

"I'm pissed off enough for no sex," I lied. Naturally Mark saw straight through that.

He repositioned my body before lifting my legs on to his lap. I was thrown.

"What are you doing?"

"You'll see," he responded.

I watched as he unzipped one of my boots and gently ran his fingers down my calf to my ankle, removing the left one and placing it on the floor before repeating the process with the right boot. All this so he could lightly massage my feet through my tights.

After the initial embarrassment passed (does anyone like their boyfriend handling their feet?), I went with the flow because it felt so bloody good. Had to bite my bottom lip or I would have moaned loud enough to wake the dead.

"Bridget, tonight didn't work out as we'd planned and I'm really sorry. But everything I do is for us, it's for our future," he insisted as he continued massaging my feet.

"I know," I responded with a heavy sigh.

Minutes ticked by then he lowered my legs and inched closer. "Did that feel good, darling?"

"It was lovely," I answered. "Do I count it as foreplay? Is it part of the make up sex you're planning?"

"I mean every apology, every kiss, every touch," he said, moving his hands over my breasts and outlining the curves with his fingertips. "I hate it when I upset you."

Did my best to concentrate. "I know you do, Mark. But here we are. Again."

"Bridget, it's nearly Christmas," he planted tender kisses on my forehead. "I'm off work from Tuesday and that's when it'll just be the two of us again."

For a few bloody days? Oh, yippee. Lucky me.

"For how long?"

"Hmmmmm?" he queried, lowering the strap of my dress and kissing my shoulder.

"I'm just wondering if things will be different next year."

"They can be," he said. "One big difference would be you finally setting a wedding date."

My stomach lurched.

"I still fancy August. Or even early September. Much better for time off work too," Mark added, kissing both my wrists.

More lurching. Told myself it was residual alcohol then did the only thing I could think of . . .

"Still really bloody pissed off with you," I countered and pulled his head towards mine for a desperate snog. Interpreting it as passion (which is what it quickly became anyway), Mark responded in kind, kissing his way down my throat to my cleavage, leaving me a quivering mess.

"Christ, you make me so fucking—" he grasped my hand and placed it over the front of his trousers. This is impossible, I thought as I increased the pressure and felt him grow harder. This is all so impossible because I always want him.

Heard a groan and I heard him breathe my name. The next thing I knew, I was in his arms and being carried to the bedroom. After being placed on the bed, I immediately sat up and pulled off my dress and tights.

Mark frantically removed his clothing, folded his boxers and fell upon me, kissing me until we were both breathless. When we broke apart, the air was thick with our panting.

He reached out a hand and lovingly smoothed down my hair. "Tonight is for you, Bridget. Not me. You."

We lay on our sides facing each other and while my hand explored his chest, gradually travelling lower, he traced the outline of my bra with his fingers.

"Silk?"

"Satin."

"Sexy," he murmured appreciatively, leaning in and delicately touching his lips to mine. Hormones surging, I slid a hand up and down, wanting him to grow even harder than he already was. He tensed but resisted the urge to thrust. Frustrated, I swung a leg over his thigh, hoping he'd take the hint.

Hands glided down my back, pulling me closer and impatiently tugging at my knickers. Hurrah! I thought. He's read my mind. Or rather, he's read another part of my body.

Eagerly removed my leg from his so that I could get on my back and lift my body. The scrap of satin was unceremoniously yanked off and dropped on the floor.

"Thought you were pissed off, Bridget?" Mark drawled as he moved over me.

"I am," I replied.

"You are?" He grabbed my wrists, pinned them above my head and whispered in my ear, "Yet you left your sexy lingerie on because . . . you know I like taking it off."

"You're lucky—" I stopped in mid-sentence, gasping as his lips brushed and then nipped my earlobe before trailing a path down my neck to my boobs.

"You're lucky . . . I love you so much," I moaned as his tongue swirled around my satin-covered breast. Slowly he circled closer and closer and closer to my nipple, licking it over the material as I writhed beneath him.

The moment he released my wrists, I crushed him to me, craving every inch of what I could feel: hard. Heavy. Hot.

"Mark," I pleaded, "I need—"

"Not yet," he insisted, pushing the fabric of my bra aside and fastening his mouth over a nipple. Immediate shockwaves.

"Are you . . . trying to . . . make me beg?"

He lifted his head, "Darling, I've pissed you off and I'm going to make it up to you." I sighed and buried my hands in his hair, trembling as I felt him expose my other breast and close his mouth over it.

"There are laws . . . in this country," I arched my back as his tongue flicked from one nipple to the other, "against torture."

"Had enough, have you?" he smiled.

"I just . . . I really can't . . . Oh fuck, Mark! Will you just get on with it! I can't take much more of this."

He kissed me deeply, pulling me even closer to him. At last I felt him unhook my bra and fling it behind him. I took that as a sign I would finally get what I needed.

Kissing wildly, we gripped each other's arses and furiously ground our hips together. Now, I thought. Do it now. Just fucking do it! Do it! But he didn't.

"Mark!" I cried. "Would you just . . . Oh shit! Please just . . . I want—"

"I know what you want, Bridget," he murmured. "I know exactly what you want and I'm going to give it to you . . ." I felt his hand slip between my thighs and steal upwards. "Eventually . . ."

One finger.

"Soon . . ."

Two fingers.

"Presently . . ."

Three fingers.

"Just not yet."

Oh, holy Jesus.

4.33 pm.

We shagged all night.

Keep going back to that first one when he kept me on the brink for the longest time. When I finally came, I nearly hyperventilated.

Much, much later in the night – well, it was actually around four-something this morning – right at crucial moment of third and last shag, we realised too late that we'd run out of condoms. Was so far gone, told him to carry on. So he did.

Not something we do often but whenever we do, always savour it because au naturel sex is different. Unquestionably so. It feels different. It feels better. Just the fact alone of no barrier between us instantly elevates it. And feeling Mark inside me, knowing he's come inside me, is an incredible buzz.

Wonder if self is pregnant? If so, is not entirely scary thought. Lovely to think that whatever happens between me and Mark, I'd always have a piece of him to love. A baby would make things better. Certainly wouldn't make things any worse. Can't wait to buy pregnancy test. This time, will make sure he doesn't walk in on me. Will do in the loo in private on New Year's Eve.

Really hope we start the New Year with - excuse me, Dickens – great expectations because life is currently revolving around the following pattern: work, home, disappointment, make up sex.

Sometimes there's a slight variation: work, disappointment, home, make up sex.

But, for the most part, it's work, home, disappointment and then make up sex.

We're v. good at the sex part of our relationship; if shagging was an Olympic sport, we'd top the medal table.

Keep wondering where Mark Darcy gets his stamina from – you wouldn't think it to look at him. Wonder if he was like this with slutty Japanese wife? Or bitchy Natasha? Thank goodness for condoms or we'd probably have a football team by now.

Tuesday 23 December

9st 4 (Am Dumbo! Dooooooom!), alcohol units (who's counting?), cigarettes 4 (harder to smoke around workaholic fiancé so v.g), calories (eating for England. Wonder if am pregnant?), sexy Christmas gift 1 (from Mark, of course).

10.50 pm. Northamptonshire.

Definitely picked the wrong place for last-minute shopping early this morning. Went to Borough High Street just after nine and actually saw two women fighting over the last bottle of Baileys in Tesco, as if we were all in a famine-ravaged Third World country instead of a south London street with more supermarkets than pubs.

Was only there to buy some wrapping paper, Chardonnay, sherry and whisky (mainly for Mark) to take to Mum's – couldn't wait to get out. People lose their bloody minds during countdown to Christmas; they panic as if The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse have been sighted in Balham and there's only 20 minutes left to buy cranberry sauce.

Rushed home to wrap Christmas presents destined for Grafton Underwood: Fortnum & Mason chocolates for Granny; a Royal Selangor pewter tankard for Dad; Vera Wang for Wedgwood Champagne flutes for Mum; a marble cheeseboard for the Alconburys; a porthole clock paperweight for Admiral Darcy; a cribbage set for Mrs Darcy and a watch rotator by Dulwich Designs for Mark. He'd better bloody like it because it cost me nearly £200.

Am massively overdrawn. Bloody Christmas.

Was in the process of ticking off Xmas checklist when Mark arrived . . . and got all randy. Couldn't believe it. Wasn't even wearing anything sexy! Had on an old polo neck jumper with an older pair of jeans and the bunny slippers I got in last year's secret Santa at work.

At around noon, we packed the car and hit the M11 for Grafton Underwood. It was heaven to escape the madness even if, in reality, I was only exchanging one type of madness for another.

Fell asleep shortly into the drive; when I woke up, it was nearly half past two and Mark was backing into a space within the beautiful, lush grounds of a grand-looking building in the country.

"Where are we?" I asked sleepily.

"My Christmas present to us. We're at Fawsley Hall," he said and switched off the ignition.

"Fawsley Hall?"

"Dates back to Tudor times. Or rather, many of the surviving original features do; Fawsley Hall dates even further back. But you're going to love its more modern aspects: the spa's range of treatments, the indoor swimming pool and the sauna."

Face broke into a wide grin. "Are we staying here tonight?"

"Absolutely," he smiled back. "Tomorrow, we'll drive on to Grafton Underwood. I'll drop you at your parents' before going home. But tonight, Bridget, tonight is all about us." He leaned in for a kiss. "Let's go."

Words don't do Fawsley Hall justice – so I shan't bother. Was completely gobsmacked by its beauty.

Mark had booked us into the master 1575 Suite – it's only the room where Queen Elizabeth I stayed! An excellent mix of Tudor and modern, the bedroom was dominated by the breathtakingly ornate four-poster bed.

Looked around the sumptuous surroundings and gleefully tested out the mattress. Was deliriously happy about this surprise.

"Mark, this is stunning!"

"Isn't it? It's been a hotel since 1998. Believe it was even mentioned in the Domesday Book. Talk about history on your doorstep," Mark said in awe as he opened his suitcase. He looked up. "By the way, it's also a very popular wedding venue. And I can certainly see the appeal, Mrs Darcy."

Had to smile at that. "We could do a lot worse than this, Mr Darcy."

"One for the list then. We're just in time for afternoon tea. And Bridget, you have an appointment at the spa booked for quarter to four."

"Oooh, goody!" Walked over to him and snuck my arms around his waist. "And what will you be doing while I'm making myself even more beautiful for you?"

"A couple of depositions to read over, but nothing too involving," he replied before dropping a kiss on my lips.

"Work?" My heart sank. I broke our embrace.

"Bloody Muribundi. Its justice system, if I may abuse the term and label it as such, exists only to serve the interests of the state not the individual. Unfortunately, our intrepid journalist has fallen foul of an arbitrary arrest and imprisonment. It's a pretty delicate situation. Might have to go there in the New Year," he stated, pulling a folder from his briefcase.

"Oh."

Mark checked his watch. "But that's a conversation for another time. We're here to have a day to ourselves before doing the family thing on Thursday. I'm famished after all that driving, aren't you? Come on, darling, let's go and stuff our faces with scones, fancies and cucumber sandwiches."

He held out his hand; I grasped it and we went downstairs.

The tea, which was really bloody scrumptious, was served in The Tudor Great Hall with its terribly grand furniture, high ceilings and impressive fireplace. Mark inspected it with great interest. Had to drag him away.

Couldn't argue with the setting, but knowing Mark had brought work to do was the annoying blot on the gorgeous landscape. I wanted him entirely to myself over Christmas, and it wasn't going to happen.

Actually pitied the poor masseur who tried to work out all my knots.

Dinner was glorious. We both started with butternut squash soup and yummy homemade bread (smothered mine in so much butter, it left yellow trails when I dunked it in my soup) before going our separate ways for mains.

Felt guilty about the butter thing so opted for the roasted provençale vegetable mozzarella tart with a wild rocket salad; Mark went for the filet mignon which he said was 'excellent'.

"Your food looks delicious," I said as I stabbed some rocket.

"It's one of the most tender steaks I have ever had the privilege of eating." He cut a portion on to his fork and held it in front of me. "Would you care for some of my meat?"

Caught his tone and looked up into his eyes. Sexy bastard. "It's very . . . big," I replied, trying not to laugh.

"Oh I think it's just the right size for you, Bridget." His mouth twitched.

Tried to stifle my giggles but instead, ended up snorting loudly in manner of a pig having a coughing fit. Several bemused diners glanced across at us. I kicked the sole of Mark's shoe.

"Stop it! People will think I'm an oik with no manners."

He chuckled. "Here, try this." I leaned forward so he could feed me.

"Was it good for you, Bridget?" he asked archly.

Naughty. Wagged my finger at him.

"Seriously, is it good, Bridget?"

"It's wonderful."

"So are you," Mark said ever so seriously.

"Me? You're the one who's admired and respected. I'm a hot mess; stick me in front of a microphone and a roomful of people and I can't string two words together."

"Individuals like me are two a penny, Bridget," he shrugged. "You, on the other hand, are wholly unique. I'm yet to meet anyone like you."

Touched, I said, "Tonight, I'm going to ride you like a jockey at the Grand National."

He grinned. "I'd better eat every ounce of this filet mignon then. I'm going to need bags and bags of energy."

Dessert was heavenly: chocolate brûlée and boozy cherries on almond shortbread. If I close my eyes, I can still taste it: yummy. Fabulous meal was rounded off with coffee and the artisan cheese selection. Wanted to relish the experience a little longer, but Mark couldn't wait to head back upstairs. Horny so-and-so.

"Champagne, chocolates and lots and lots of bubbles – I don't want to move. Ever."

"Hate to be the bearer of bad news but the clock's ticking, Bridget. The water's warm. It'll soon be tepid."

We were doing the one thing we couldn't do in my flat: bathing together. After all, would have been v. stupid not to take advantage of the large freestanding bath as there's barely room in my tub to swing a mouse, let alone two people.

Snugly positioned between Mark's thighs, was sitting with my back against his chest and loving the feel of it.

Dunked the sponge, turned and pressed firmly, watching the water fall down his chest. "Forgot to tell you I fell asleep during my massage. The masseur said I was snoring. Wanted the ground to open up and swallow me!"

"But that's a sign you were in a state of total relaxation," Mark said as he dipped the sponge and squeezed water down my back.

"Oh, I was in a state alright. Bet Elizabeth Hurley doesn't snore through her massages." At this rate, will never develop the inner poise that will mark me out as a sophisticated woman of the world. Scooped up some bubbles and blew them down the bath in exasperation.

"Don't give it any more thought, darling." Felt him kiss the back of my neck and then more water oozed down my shoulders and back. "Looking at these glorious wood beams and exposed stone walls, it's hard to believe we were sitting in London traffic a few hours ago."

"And now we're sitting in this gorgeous bathtub," I sighed dreamily, rubbing his leg under the water as he kissed my shoulders.

"After we're married, we must buy a bath big enough for two," Mark declared. I waited for my stomach to lurch, but it didn't. Cheered, I took the proffered glass of Champagne.

Moved my feet just so I could enjoy the feeling of the water rippling against us. "It's been a perfect day, Mark. And we've topped it off perfectly with this bath." His arms tightened around me; I angled my head so we could kiss.

"Dinner was heavenly. I was going to be good but I couldn't resist the chocolate brûlée."

"Virginia Woolf said: 'one cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.' I can't wait for the 'love well' part of this evening, Bridget."

"Neither can I," I smiled, "which is why I've drained the Champagne."

"That's my cue to drain the bath," he said, reaching for the plug. "Let's rinse off and test out that bed."

We got up and moved under the shower head. Within a minute, our romantic, relaxing bath turned into an excitingly erotic shower. Mmmmmmm.