hate the morning after the night before, because you never know how you stand, and even though we wake up and have sex again, I'm still not sure what will happen once we both break the spell by getting out of bed, and, in my case, going to work, so I try to put the moment off for as long as possible by snuggling up to Nick, because let's face it, it's not as if he has anywhere to go.

But after the fifth time the alarm goes off I have to get up or I'll be severely late for work, so I go into the kitchen to make some coffee, and Nick rolls over groaning about the sunlight.

I wrap myself up in the silk dressing gown that was a present from Jules last year, which I only ever wear if a man stays the night, so needless to say it still looks brand new, and try to fluff up my hair and wipe away the mascara from under my eyes in my powder compact mirror in the living room.

I carry a mug of coffee back into the bedroom for Nick, and stand for a while watching him. He isn't asleep, but he has his eyes closed and he's lying there, the duvet covering his legs, the rest of his body bare, with one arm slung across his eyes, and I stand there thinking, fucking hell, he may not be what I'm looking for but Jesus is he gorgeous.

And as I stand there he opens his eyes and when he sees me he holds his arms out and says,' Come and give me a cuddle,' and as I'm lying in his arms and he's making me laugh by giving me big, punchy kisses, I'm thinking, God, I could get used to this.

No, Libby. No, you could not. He's not what you want. You really think you could spend your life in a grotty bedsit in Highgate? You think you could spend your social life in pubs drinking warm beer? You think you could forget all about your dreams of being a rich man's wife and a lady who lunches? I don't think so. No. I am not going to fall in love with this man. I'm going to be a woman of the nineties and just enjoy the sex, and so what if he happens to be affectionate and quite funny? That's just a bonus.

Nick sits up in bed and drinks his coffee while I get ready for work. He makes me laugh when I open my wardrobe, and he says, 'What on earth are those?' pointing to a load of hangers covered in tissue paper and cellophane.

'That's my dry cleaning,' I say, as he shakes his head in amazement.

'Dry cleaning? Jesus, we really do come from different worlds.'

'I suppose you don't even do ironing,' I laugh.

'Not if I can possibly help it,' he says, and then, when I'm putting my make-up on in the bathroom mirror, he comes in and sits on the edge of the bath to talk to me and, as he puts it, 'see what I'm doing'.

'What's that for?' he keeps saying, as I root around in my make-up bag and pull out yet another suspiciously alien thing — at least to his eyes.

'I dunno,' he says eventually, shaking his head as I pout at my perfect reflection. 'If you ask me you look far better without anything.'

'Now I know you're joking,' I say, because I'd never dare leave my house without the full appliance of science.

'No, I'm serious,' he says. 'You don't need to wear all that make-up. I know there are some women who do need it because without it they look like complete dogs, but you're really pretty naturally, and you honestly do look better without.'

I don't know about you, but flattery, for me, will get anyone just about anywhere they want to go, and I could kiss him for saying that. In fact, I do. I completely forget about the make-up bit and just concentrate on the pretty bit. He says I'm pretty! He thinks I'm pretty!

By the time we leave the house and walk up to the tube station, I'm flying as high as a kite. Not that I've fallen in love, not even close, but it's just so nice to have had a night of snuggling up to someone, to have someone to talk to in the morning, to have compliments again.

But as we separate in the tube station, him to go north, me to go to Kilburn, I do feel a tiny twinge, because even though I know this isn't going to go anywhere, I don't think I can stand it if he just says, 'Bye.' I think Nick must see this in my face, because he puts his arms around me and gives me a huge hug.

'That was the nicest night I've had in ages,' he says, while my heart sinks, because surely this is the lead-in to, 'Take care.'

But no. I'm wrong.

'When can I see you again?' he says next, and, despite myself, I feel like doing a little jig on the spot.

'Umm,' I say, pulling away and digging my diary out from my bag. I flick the pages open and have a quick look. 'I'm a bit busy this week,' I say. 'So either the weekend or next week?'

Please say weekend, I think.

'Saturday?' he says.

'Great,' I say, beaming.

'Okay,' he says. 'Why don't you come to me?'

'What, and set foot in your hovel?'

Nick laughs. 'We could go out for something to eat. I'll give you a call at work to arrange a time. How's that?'

It's fine. It would have been better if he'd arranged a time there and then, because once a man says he's going to call you, even if you know you're going to see him again, you still sit and wait for his call, but hell, at least I have a firm date, if not a time, and I'm suddenly feeling a lot happier than I've felt in months.

'You look like the cat that got the cream,' says Jo, our super-trendy receptionist at the office.

'Do I?' I say innocently, but I can't help it, a huge Cheshire cat grin plasters itself to my face.

'You're in love, aren't you?' she says.

'Nope.' I shake my head.' Definitely not. But,' and I skip away at this point, just turning back before I disappear through the doorway, 'I may well be in lust,' and I wink at her before making my way to my desk.

Do I get any work done? Do I hell. I sit and moon at my desk, looking out the window and shivering with lust at the occasional flashbacks of my passion-filled night.

And the flashbacks seem to come at the most ridiculous times. I'll be talking on the phone to a journalist, and suddenly, mid-sentence, a picture of Nick licking my neck slides into my head and I'll pause, grin and lose the plot completely.

It really isn't that I'm falling for him, it's just so damned nice to have had a gorgeous man in my bed, to have been reminded that I am attractive, sexy, that I can still pull.

Because, to be perfectly honest, I've been starting to doubt myself these last six months. Not hugely, because there haven't been that many men I've been interested in, but I do have a tendency to fall for the ones who will never be interested in me, and the ones that fall for me are generally pretty revolting.

I can't figure out why I fall for the wrong ones. Jules can't figure it out either. I meet these men, fall desperately in love, and become friends with them in the mistaken hope that one day they'll see the error of their ways and realize they're madly attracted to me. But of course that doesn't happen. I just go out with them as friends and misinterpret every look, every sigh, every touch, and try to convince myself they're about to make a move, and each time I end up feeling like shit, because yet another man I fancy isn't interested.

The last time it happened was Simeon. I made a beeline for him at a press launch, and, because I fancied him, was the brightest, funniest, sparkiest person I could be, and naturally Simeon thought I was great.

But thinking I'm great doesn't mean he fancied me, and I set off on a mission to make Simeon feel the same way. I started by phoning him a couple of times a week, and he didn't seem to mind, he always sounded really pleased to hear from me, which is hardly surprising since I did all the talking, digging up my wittiest stories to make him laugh.

And eventually I invited him to a party, and spent the whole evening glued to his side, and he didn't seem to mind that either. In fact, he rather seemed to like it.

And gradually I forced my friendship upon him until he had no choice but to be friends with me, and soon he was phoning me as often as I was phoning him, and each time my heart would lift and I'd convince myself he was slowly starting to feel the same way.

Eventually we ended up at a party, where Simeon made a beeline for a short brunette with crappy dress sense and an American accent, and I stood on the sidelines watching this and feeling like shit.

And a week later when he phoned, full of excitement at his date with the American the evening before, I put down the phone and burst into tears, and that was when I decided I'd had enough of falling in love with men who didn't want me. I was going to let someone fall in love with me, and they'd have to treat me like a princess for me to be even the slightest bit interested.

But that's love. Lust is something completely different, and it feels like ages since I've been attracted to someone who feels the same way about me, and okay, that doesn't mean anything, it certainly doesn't mean Nick's The One, but it just makes me feel good about myself, which is good. Isn't it?

In fact, I'm feeling so good that I'm not the slightest bit stressed about my job, which is a bloody miracle, because lately I've been given more and more accounts and I have to confess that there are times when I really don't know how I'm going to cope.

My accounts? Okay, I'm currently working on Sean Moore, which you already know about. A performance artist called Rita Roberts, which is a bit peculiar because I don't tend to do the theatrical stuff as I know nothing about it; a film called The Mystery Cup, which you won't have heard of yet but, if I do my job properly, you'll be reading about in every paper soon; the comedian Tony Baloney; and an aspiring television presenter called Amanda Baker. I say aspiring, which isn't really fair, because she is on television, although not nearly as often as she'd like. She presents a showbiz slot on one of the daytime shows, and the minute she got her face on-screen she decided she was a star. Unfortunately, nobody seems to know who she is, and it's a bit of a catch-22. The papers won't write about her because she's a no one, but without the coverage she can't raise her profile, and it's the hardest account I've got, not just because of that, but because she's such a complete bitch.

I managed to get her into a celeb round-up where one of the nationals wanted celebs to talk about their date from hell, and you'd think she'd be over the moon, but all she did was moan about being the smallest quote in there. For God's sake, did she really expect to take precedence over Germaine Greer, Vanessa Feltz, Emma Noble and Ulrika? Well, evidently yes. The stupid cow did.

But even the fact that Amanda's coming in today for a meeting doesn't ruin my good mood, and when the receptionist buzzes me to tell me she's here, I float down to meet her, and even manage to compliment her, which seems to throw her a bit. 'I love your suit,' I lie, taking in her tele-friendly pastel trouser suit, which looks vaguely Armani-ish except I know it's not because Amanda isn't nearly successful enough to afford Armani.

'This old thing?' she says, but I can tell she's pleased.

'Come through.' I hold the door open for her, and say in my best PR voice, 'So how are you?'

'Oh, you know,' she says, running a hand through her mane of streaky blonde hair. 'Busy as ever.'

'I caught the slot last week, the one where you interviewed Tony Blackburn. It was excellent, you really are good on TV.'

'D'you think?' she says. 'I didn't look fat?'

I laugh, because, stroppy cow that she may be, she still, like every woman I know, is convinced she's fat, and yes, admittedly, television does add around ten pounds, but nevertheless she does look the part of the perfect blonde, fluffy, bimbo television presenter.

'Fat?' I say. 'You? Are you mad? You're skinny.'

'I wish,' she says, but I've done it, I've actually put her in a good mood, which may make things easier because normally we start off on the wrong foot and end up with her moaning about the lack of press coverage. Hopefully now she'll be a bit more understanding. If I weren't so keen on my job, I'd tell her she's just another bloody wannabee and I really can't be bothered, but obviously I can't do that, so I shuffle some papers around and ask what she wants to see me about.

'I really feel,' she starts,' that now is the time we should be blitzing the papers and getting some more coverage.'

'Umm, yes,' I say, digging out the list to show her exactly who has been approached. 'Was there anything specific you had in mind?'

'Well, yes, actually,' she says. 'I noticed in Hello! that they've done a profile of Lorraine Kelly with her new baby, and I've just moved house and done it up, and I thought it would make a very good feature.'

'Okay,' I say, groaning inside. 'I'll ring them.' Which I will and they will sit on the other end of the phone, doubtless raising their eyes to the ceiling while I start my PR spiel about how brilliant Amanda is, and then they'll say, sorry, we've never heard of her.

'And,' she says, 'I wondered exactly who you had spoken to recently about me?'

Ah ha! Here's my perfect chance for revenge. I slide the contact sheet over to her and start speaking in my most sympathetic tone of voice. 'Last week I spoke to Femail in the Daily Mail, Sun Woman, the lifestyle supplement of the Express, Bella, Best, Woman's Realm and Woman. This week I spoke to OK!, Here! magazine, TV Quick and Cosmopolitan.'

'Oh.' Amanda's voice is very small, and, for the first time ever, and I swear, this must be down to the good mood I'm in, suddenly I feel sorry for her.

'Look,' I say. 'I know it's hard,' and I give her my speech about catch-22. 'We need to come up with an angle, really.'

'What sort of thing?' she says, and for a moment I forget I'm with a client whom I don't really like and who doesn't really like me and before I can help it I say, 'Couldn't you shag a celebrity?'

She looks horrified.

I'm horrified.

'That was a joke,' I say, trying to laugh, except I can't quite manage it and it comes out like a little strangled groan. 'Seriously, though,' I continue, 'have there been any life-changing events that we might be able to use, something that would make a good story?'

'Not like moving house, then?' she asks hopefully.

'Er, no. Not like moving house.' Like stealing, pillaging, nervous breakdowns, I'm thinking.

'Umm.' She sits there and I can almost see her brain try to kick into gear. Oops, nearly, nearly. Nope, she can't quite manage it.

'Okay,' I say. 'As a child, did you ever steal anything?'

'Are you serious?' she asks.

'Absolutely.' I nod my head very seriously.

'No. Not really. Well…'

'Yes?' I encourage eagerly.

'Well, I did once take an eyeliner from Boots by mistake. I meant to pay for it but I completely forgot.'

'Perfect!' I say. 'My thieving hell from top TV presenter! I can see it now.'

'Are you sure that will make a story?' she says doubtfully. 'I mean, it was only an eyeliner and I was about fourteen years old, and I wouldn't say it was hell, exactly, except I did feel terribly guilty.'

'We won't say it was an eyeliner, we'll say it was a complete set of make-up, and you won't have been fourteen, it will have happened last year, and the outcome of it was you felt so terrible, you didn't know what came over you, you went back and owned up.'

'But that's lying!' she says.

'That's PR,' I say. 'Hang on,' and I pull the phone over and dial a number. 'Keith? It's Libby from Joe Cooper PR. Fine, fine, you? Great. Listen, you know Amanda Baker from Breakfast Break? No, no, the showbiz slot. No, no, she does the weather. No, no, the blonde. Oh well, anyway, she's doing more and more and she's getting really big and she's just confessed the most amazing story which would be perfect for your magazine. It turns out she had the shoplifting experience from hell last year, and she feels the time is right to confess all. Yup.' I nod, listening to what he's saying. 'Yup. Perfect. Full page? Brilliant. Okay.' I scribble down the direct line of the journalist he wants to do it, and put the phone down.

'Well, Amanda,' I say. 'You've just got yourself a full page in Female Fancies, with photographs and everything.'

'That's fantastic!' she says, almost breathless with excitement. 'Photos! That's brilliant! Will it be a studio shot with a professional hair and make-up person?'

'We'll sort out the details later,' I say noncommittally, thinking now would not be the time to tell her they want to take pictures of her in a chemist's, furtively slipping a make-up bag into her large, voluminous raincoat.

'And,' I say, dialling another number, 'how about some radio?'

Amanda is so impressed she can't speak. She nods.

'Mark? It's Libby from Joe Cooper PR. Listen, you know that slot about Londoners and their favourite restaurants? How about Amanda Baker from Breakfast Break? I'll fill you in later, yup, yup. Brilliant.' I can't be bothered to tell someone else who she is, and I knew he'd say yes because local radio will give just about anyone airtime, and it does the job because Amanda's thrilled.

'Libby,' she says, standing up and dusting imaginary dirt from her jacket. 'You are doing the most incredible job.'

I smile.

'How about making a quick call to Femail and seeing if they'll do a feature on me?'

'Er,' I stall. 'I just spoke to the commissioning editor before you arrived and I know she's in conference so I'll call her later.'

'Oh.' Her face drops slightly. 'Okay. Well, I'd better be off.' She checks her watch. 'Thank you.' And with that she gives me two air kisses on either side of my face, which throws me somewhat because she's never before offered me anything other than a limp handshake.

'Ciao,' she says, as I wince. 'I'll speak to you later,' and I know she will, because the smaller the star the bigger the pain in the arse they are.

'Libby?' says Jo, as I show Amanda to the door. 'Jules is on the line. It's about the eighth time she's called. D'you want to take it or call her back?'

I'm already running back to my desk as she finishes the sentence. 'I'll take it, I'll take it,' I scream, diving into my chair and breathlessly picking up the phone.

'Libby!' shouts Jules. 'I've been dying to speak to you, I can't believe you had a bloody meeting, I can't get any work done, who's Nick and what happened, you had sex didn't you, I know you bloody had sex, how was it, what's he like, tell me everything…'

'Calm down,' I laugh, lighting a cigarette and settling back in my chair for a good long chat. 'First of all you can stop planning the wedding because he's definitely not for me, but yes, we did have sex, and fucking hell, Jules, he is gorgeous.'

'Why isn't he for you? How do you know he's not for you?'

'Okay. For starters he's got no money…'

There's a silence on the other end of the phone.

'Next he lives in a disgusting bedsit in Highgate.'

'How do you know it's disgusting?'

'He told me. He's not looking for a relationship. He's very into politics. His idea of a good night out is down the pub with ten pints of beer.'

'Okay, okay,' sighs Jules. 'I get the picture. But Libby, just because he doesn't have money doesn't mean he's not for you. Maybe you should start lowering your expectations.'

'Jules! You know I couldn't seriously go out with someone like that. Anyway,' I say, feeling slightly guilty at admitting all this, 'it's not just the money. It's everything. We're like chalk and cheese.'

'So what happened last night, then?'

And I tell her.