WHAT NEXT FOR BRIDGET JONES? 

By Amanda Platell, The Daily Mail - August 3, 2005

Tomorrow her famous diary returns... but why wait? In a spirit of the sincerest flattery, the Mail's Amanda Platell imagines what it will contain. And it's v.v. surprising

IT WAS the publishing phenomenon of the decade. 

Now Bridget Jones's Diary is back. Its author Helen Fielding is relaunching the column in The Independent newspaper in which the character was born. So what does she have in store for Bridget? 

When we left her, the hapless heroine was at last happily ensconced with her lover, Mark Darcy. Here, AMANDA PLATELL fast-forwards Bridget's life by seven years and imagines what might happen next. 

TUESDAY, AUGUST 2 

9st 10lb (Who cares? After 40, a woman counts crow's feet, not calories). 

Alcohol units 16, cigarettes 15 (is v. stressful being successful daytime TV star). No. of days since had sex 18 (used to count it in seconds before became long-term, live-in fiancee of gorgeous Mark Darcy). No. of days to wedding, sadly unknown. 

8am, SIT DOWN BRITAIN TV STUDIOS: 

Just eaten three croissants, but no butter, so constitutes diet. Not sure which one, but will find out and discuss on show today. Mark Darcy likes me curvy, public like me curvy. 

Get paid per pound these days since Sit Up Britain created top TV chat show Sit Down Britain and made me a star. 

Ten years as idiot girl with fat a**e doing stupid stunts paid off. Am now on sofa with Daniel Cleaver's twin brother, Jude. 

Bridget And Jude Show. 

Battled it out with Richard and Judy. 

We won. They left for America. 

Think fine performances in Strictly Come Dancing In Ethiopia swung career, despite many falls flat on face and bum. 

Daytime TV public like plump stars who fall flat on face and bum and have experienced real pain like in Thai jail on trumpedup drugs charges. 

Makes them feel at home with own families. 

Beat Bob Geldof in dancing final and wore more spangles than Natasha Kaplinsky. Did not wear her smug smile. Saved that for later, when reunited with hugely successful international human rights lawyer Mark Darcy. 

Told him I, too, was doing my bit to save Africa. Maybe we should do something together next. He said he thought I'd done quite enough. 

Makeup lady on hugely successful daytime TV show says I need an extra half-hour in makeup now. 

Touche Eclat covers almost entire face. God, am only midfortysomething. 

Hugely successful daytime sofa stars do not reveal age. 

Jude Cleaver walks in. Heart lurches each time I see him, even though have been happily engaged to hugely successful human rights lawyer - for seven years! Did not know when I fell in love with Mark Darcy that Lefties do not believe in marriage! Am tired of waiting. 

Grrrr. Must: 

1) Stop smoking. 

2) Not drink more than 20 units a week (champagne does not count). 

3) Put relationship before career at least once a week. 

4) Make Mark Darcy marry me and give up career to raise little Darcies. 

9.30am: Mark Darcy calls from his chambers, Matrix Reloaded. 

'Bridget, you haven't forgotten about the charity dinner at Highgrove tonight, have you?' 

'What?' Note of panic in voice. 

'Do not say "what", say "pardon".' Seven years and he's still correcting my grammar. 'And you have been practising your curtsies, I hope darling. The Duchess of Cornwall will be with Prince Charles.' Uugh! Curtsey to old cow who dresses in tents and killed darling Diana. Never! I would rather die old spinster alone, half-eaten by Alsatians, than betray sisterhood. 

Shazza would kill me. I would kill myself. 

'Valerie in wardrobe is getting some dresses in. Or should I just wear old hag tent frock like Camilla?' 

'Please, Bridget, she is our future queen. I think she looks lovely. Very regal.' 

'Yeah, regal like a corgi.' 

'And the last time you let your wardrobe lady dress you, you turned up at the Law Chambers black tie dinner in that dress held together with safety pins. Please, Bridget, this is important to me. And remember it's themed - it's a Black and White dinner.' 

How dare stuffy, stiff, three-piece Mark Darcy lecture me on fashion. Have finger on pulse of style. Am daytime-TV queen. 

And he can talk, with Cherie Booth as partner in trendy free-the killers human rights chambers. She is second worst dressed woman in entire English- speaking world. 

First is old hag in tent frock. 

Made terrible mistake of having fiance on show once. Daytime TV viewers believe in hanging - especially trendy human rights lawyers, especially in these troubled times. 

1pm: Show over. Jude Cleaver bursts into dressing room with bunch of flowers he has nicked off set. 'Bridge, I love you. Leave that callous brute and be mine.' Throws himself at my Jimmy Choos. I toe him away disdainfully. 

'You know I love Mark Darcy and we are to be married.' I am successful engaged woman, not singleton to be toyed with. 

'You've waited longer for that rat than Camilla waited for the British public to stop throwing bread rolls at her. Get real Bridge, he ain't gonna marry you. And just think what a big Hello! wedding would do for our ratings.' Wardrobe lady forgot special gala dinner dress request. Promises outfit will fit and she will arrive with it at gorgeous, successful couple's apartment we share in Kensington by 5pm. 

Time for tanning session, essential for TV star. Fall asleep under sunbed. 

Am slightly orange. 

Needed nap to survive late lunch with Shazzer, Tom and Jude. 

Shazzer and Tom still single, unlike happily engaged friend (me). 

Girly pal Jude is smug married and living in Notting Hill with Vile Richard and three vile kids. 

Shazzer and Tom say life for singles gets worse after 40, much worse. 

Glad I am smug engaged. 

2pm, THE IVY RESTAURANT: Sofa queen always gets table. 

'Look, Bridge, we're none of us getting any younger,' says Jude - not boy Jude co-presenter but girl Jude best friend. 'It would be fun. A whole week of nip and suck, an eyelid job, liposuction, Botox, whatever you want. You're off air for a month next week. A five-star private hotel in the hills of Majorca. You have your career to think of now. The camera adds 10lb and ten years.' 

The days have gone when I counted crow's feet. Now count eagle's talons. 

'But Mark Darcy says he'll leave me if I have Botox.' 

'Darling, he'll leave you if you don't.' 

'He'll never marry you, so why let him run your life?' says Shazzer. 

'I've got a Botox session this afternoon, but I've got a rush job on so you have my slot,' says Jude. 'And I'll have the Majorca tickets dropped over to your flat.' Have Botox, but sadly am uninformed by so-called friend that it leaves you with horrible needle marks all over your face, resembling adolescent zits. Am fortysomething, not 14, look ridiculous. 

Mark Darcy furious, dress a disaster, contemplate wearing burkha left in cupboard by Iranian cleaning lady. It is black. Valerie says they'll think I am taking the mickey, as am well-known right winger-with unconvincing soft-liberal underbelly sofa queen. Burkha better than Nazi uniform, I say. 

Attempt to cover Botox spots with St Tropez. Disaster deepens. 

Dress splits trying to pull over extra-wobbly bits. Burkha it is. 

Valerie helps modify so it is short burkha and shows off still-good legs in impossibly high Manolo Blahniks. V tired. Maybe just a little nap. 

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 3 

9st 14 (am just guessing by stomach protruding even out of burkha). 

Alcohol units unknown (lost count after falling over trying to curtsey to old hag in tent frock who killed Diana). Cigarettes 10 (all in kitchen as Prince has no-smoking policy, except for old hag). Number of days to wedding: Doubt there will now be wedding. 

1.30am, OUR KITCHEN IN GORGEOUS COUPLE'S BUT NOT MARRIEDS' FLAT: Have just eaten half body weight in cheese. Can't find glasses so cannot see how many of weekly calories consumed. 

Contemplate asking Mark Darcy for his glasses to check, but think again. He looks at me in way no human rights lawyer should look at other human being. 

Would clearly like to kill me. Without trial. 

'You did it deliberately, you always do it! Wearing that ridiculous burkha and falling into our future queen, then asking her if she used the same dress designer as the Queen Mother. How could you Bridget?' 

'But you used to say you loved me just the way I am.' 

'That was before you turned into this ridiculous TV person.' 

'You just can't stand me being successful and getting more attention than you!' 

'That is utterly ridiculous. And I told you I'd leave you if you ever had Botox.' 

'Didn't!' 

'Did! And a burkha at a black and white multicultural charity dinner.' 

'How was I supposed to know?' 

'The Council of Muslim Leaders cohosting the dinner with the Prince of Wales should have been a clue, even to a Daytime TV presenter.' Mark Darcy buries his head in hands. I bury heart in hands. Oh no, here comes singledom again. I can feel I am about to be dumped. 

8.30am: Soon-to-be-former fiance Mark Darcy brings me cup of tea in bed. 

Both avoid discussing last night's disaster or disaster of our relationship. 

'I feel sick,' I moan. 

'You look worse,' he adds unchivalrously. 'You always feel sick in the morning these days. You TV types drink too much.' 

'And you stuffy Old Etonian types don't drink enough, or you wouldn't be so boring.' 

'Whatever you say. These tickets just arrived for you.' He flings envelope clearly from travel agent on bed with disdain. No one does disdain like Mark Darcy. 

'Can't wait, big kiss' scrawled on the back of travel envelope. 'It's from your libidinous co-star Jude,' says Darcy, through gritted teeth. As if I haven't put up with enough treachery from that family. First Daniel Cleaver, now his hideous twin. I suppose you're having an affair with him now. No doubt it will boost ratings on that ridiculous television show of yours, which is all you seem to care about these days.' 

Mark Darcy has always been jealous of Jude Cleaver. Guess he just hates Cleavers, after Daniel ran off with his wife, then me. 

'No, it's from my girlfriend Jude,' I protest, through a hangover makeup lady will not be able to disguise. Am hardly about to tell him it is sun, sea and cosmetic surgery holiday we are planning. 

'Do I look stupid, Bridget?'

'No, just pompous.' 

'At least I am not ridiculous. A mini burkha and Manolo Blahniks at the Prince of Wales's multiethnic charity dinner!' 

'Well, that's better than when you turned up at the summer barbecue party for Bridget And Jude dressed in a three-piece Savile Row suit.' 

'And as if the burkha wasn't enough, you even managed to get searched by Special Branch.' 

'They said I looked as though I was concealing something on my body! It was just my stomach.' At which point I drag the duvet around me to hide my wobbly bits and walk as gracefully as I can manage to the bathroom. 

'It's no use Bridget, we both know it's over,' he says through bathroom door. I flush loo noisily. He leaves. 

We have dumped each other. 

9am, SIT DOWN BRITAIN DRESSING ROOM: 'But that dress should have fitted, Bridget, it's a size 14,' says wardrobe guru Valerie. 

'It couldn't have been. It was too tight over my stomach, and my boobs seem to have expanded.' We stop and stare at each other. 

Exchange of knowing looks. 

'Bloody men,' we say together. 

'I'll pop out to Boots and get the pregnancy test,' she offers. 

Two hours of live TV with humungous hangover is like month spent in Thai prison. Arghh! 

Valerie has left Boots bag in my new pale pink Mulberry Roxanne bag, bought at sale for just [pounds sterling]450. 

Mark Darcy said it is v. footballers' wives. I said (cleverly, I thought): At least they are wives! 

1am, BEDROOM OF FAB COUPLE'S FLAT: Hurrah! Grrr! Yes, I have crossed the thin blue line from fortysomething career woman with top job and top fiance to fortysomething-pregnant single woman with broken engagement. 

Crawl into bed naked. Life is over. 

Life begins. Depressed. Excited. 

Can eat for two now. But cook for one! No more counting calories, v. good. But now counting lonely nights of singledom as single mum, v. bad. 

Must stop smoking, soon. 

Doorbell rings, Iranian cleaning lady calls up to say Jude is here. 

'Let her in,' I cry. Best friend with many babies is needed now. 

Bedroom door opens and in walks enormous bunch of yellow roses. It is not girl Jude but boy Jude, of Bridget And Jude TV fame. 

He falls on the bed. 'There's something I have to tell you,' he begins. 

Whereas yesterday I would have thrown him out, now am single woman about to become single mum. Funny how that focuses the mind. I smile seductively. 

'I am in love with Topaz,' he declares. 

'What, the 22-year- old stick insect weather girl!' 

'You never liked her, Bridge. We're getting married this weekend. Just a small wedding, my darling girl and Hello!'

So this is what it's like being single at 40. You get dumped by a Cleaver for a size 10 weather girl half your age. 

'Hey Jude, don't let me down,' I cry, before realising the door has opened again. In walks an even bigger bunch of pink peonies. 

I recognise Savile Row suit. Mark Darcy is immediately furious and demands Jude fights him like a man over my dishonour. 

It is peonies at dawn. The two dance around the room, striking each other with their chosen blooms. 

Room is awash with petals. 

In typical Cleaver style, Jude flees. 

A dishevelled Mark Darcy walks wearily across the room and, in true haughty successful international human rights lawyer way, drops his flat keys on the bedside table. 

'It's over,' he says. 'You are welcome to him.' 

'How do you know it's a him?' I say, too quietly for him to hear. 

THURSDAY, AUGUST 4 

10st 2 (maybe it's twins and am eating for three!). Alcohol units 0, cigarettes 0 (v. good, v. boring). No. of days since had sex 20 (will never have sex again). No. of days to wedding, unknown (must find man first). 

8am: Have still not realised the secret of happiness with men. Do know that heartbreak is harder to bear without alcohol, cigarettes and sex. We want it all and we wait too long. Now I have career and baby on the way, but no highly gorgeous internationally renowned human rights lawyer. 

Never thought singledom would end up for me in single-mumdom. 

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 2005 

10st 7 (never believed woman could get this fat). Alcohol units 0 (1 glass of champagne and was sick all over Jude in ad break). Cigarettes 0 (OK, one bloody little Silk Cut). No. of days since had sex (you must be joking, sex with beached whale). 

8am, SIT DOWN BRITAIN: Great thing about daytime TV is no one notices how fat you get. Just look at Fern Britton - she's probably pregnant all the time. Am doing lots of food items on show in attempt to put off moment when secret of my single-mumdom is exposed to entire world. Big fight with show stylists. Why can't kaftans be fashionable in autumn? 

TUESDAY, JANUARY 24, 2006 

10st 13 (no fags, no booze, am convinced am eating for sextuplets, but alas scan says one). Alcohol units 0, cigarettes 0, sex 0, expectation of sex 0. 

6pm, SHAZZER'S FLAT, FRIENDS REUNITED: 'You have to tell him,' shouts Shazza, blowing smoke in my face and waving her champagne glass around. 'And if you don't, I will.' Girly Jude and Tom clearly agree. 

Everyone in the world seems to know except Mark Darcy. Boss called me in and demanded truth - obesity or baby. He didn't mind, good for ratings either way. 

'If Mark Darcy wants to know what's happening in my life, he can damn well call or watch me - I am on bloody TV two hours a day, five days a week!' I pout. 'If you are really my friend, you will stop blowing bloody smoke in my face and shut up.' As I found out later, Shazzer did what Shazzer always does: she kept to her word. 

She sent Mark Darcy a video of my show. It was weeks before she blurted it out when pie-eyed on Friday night. But not a whisper from Mark. Maybe he thinks that it's Jude's baby. 

SATURDAY, MAY 20, 2006 

11st 10 and 11st 2 (that's the difference between Bridget and baby boy as one entity and Bridget and baby boy as two separate human beings). Alcohol units 1 (so, OK, I've just had a baby, one glass does not make me bad single mum), cigarettes 0. No. of days until I can imagine ever having sex again 1,567,322. 

3pm, ROYAL FREE HOSPITAL, LONDON, ROOM 301, MATERNITY WARD: It's just like that scene in The Lord Of The Rings, when Frodo's done incredible things and saved the world and nearly died and he gets better and all his friends come in through the door and jump on his bed. 

Everyone comes, Mum and Dad, Shazzer, Tom and Jude, and Jude and Valerie, and even Una and Geoffrey Alconbury turn up with a miniature turkey curry buffet. 

Everyone except the man I want to see most of all - the man whose child I have just squeezed from my grossly misshapen body. 

And then, arriving around the corner, I see the biggest bunch of pink peonies any internationally successful human rights lawyer has ever carried anywhere, ever, in the whole wide world...