o Libby dear,' says my mother, pouring the tea out of her best china teapot. 'How was last night?'

You know, it's an extraordinary thing but here I am, twenty-seven, independent, mature, sophisticated, yet the minute I step through my parents' front door I regress to being a surly teenager, and I feel the same exasperation at my parents' questions now as I did ten years ago.

'It was fine,' I say, determined to be nice, not to let them get to me.

'And?' my mother says with a smile.

'And what?' I grunt, picking up the delicate tea cup.

'And is he nice?'

'He's okay.'

'If he's just okay why are you going out with him?' she trills with laughter, and pushes her hair behind her ears — a nervous habit I've unfortunately inherited.

'I'm not going out with him,' I grunt. 'We just went out last night.'

God, I think, mentally raising my eyes to the ceiling. What would she say if I told her the truth? If I told her that yes, I went out with someone, and then we went back to his place and shagged each other senseless until we both fell asleep, and then in the morning had tea in bed (sorry, my romantic notions of breakfast in bed were slightly ambitious, given that the only things in Nick's fridge, he grudgingly admitted, were a six-pack of beer, a tub of butter and half a pack of bacon that was meant to have been eaten three months previously), then had sex again, and that I came straight here (again, we never managed that walk because Nick wanted to watch the football, so I amused myself reading back copies of Loaded).

'And what does he do?'

'He's a writer.'

'Ooh, a writer. How exciting. What does he write?'

She may be irritating, but I can't tell her the truth. 'He writes, er, he writes articles.'

'What sort of articles?'

'For men's magazines.'

'That's nice. He must be successful.'

'Yes. Mum?' I've just thought of something to change the subject. 'I thought you had chocolate marzipan cake.'

'Oh, silly me,' she says, standing up as I breathe a sigh of relief. 'I completely forgot. It's in the kitchen,' and she disappears while I catch Dad's eye and smile as he rolls his eyes to the ceiling.

And then Mum comes back out and says, 'Does your young man have a name?'

'He's not my young man, and yes. His name's Nick.'

'Nick,' she repeats, thinking about it. 'Nicholas. Oh, I do like the name Nicholas. Where does he live?'

'Highgate.'

'Very posh,' she says, and I think how she'd have heart failure if she saw his flat. 'He must be doing well if he can afford to live in Highgate. Has he got one of those lovely big houses, then?'

'No, Mum,' I sigh. 'No one I know lives in big houses, you know that. We all have flats.'

'Of course you do,' she says. 'So have you been there? Is it a nice flat?'

'Give her a break,' says my dad, putting down the paper. 'It's early days, isn't it, Libby?' and I nod, smiling at him with relief.

'I just worry about you,' says Mum, smoothing down her apron and sitting down. 'When I was your age I was happily married and you were three years old. I don't understand all you girls. So independent.'

'Yup. We're women of the nineties,' I say. 'And anyway I'm not bothered about getting married, I'm far too interested in my career.'

God, if only that were true.

'So how is work?' says Dad, and, as usual, I dredge up all the work stories which fascinate them both, and I tell them about Amanda, expecting them to laugh, which my dad does, except he suppresses it pretty damn quickly when he sees my mother's expression.

'That's not very nice of you, Libby. Don't you think you ought to tell her?'

'Oh, Mum,' I groan. 'It'll be fine. She'd pose naked if she thought it would get her publicity.'

'Well. You know best.' She says it with raised eyebrows, meaning I don't know best and she disapproves.

'So how's Olly?' I ask finally, knowing that the only way to put her in a truly good mood is to ask about my beloved brother, the apple of her eye.

'Being a rascal as usual,' she says. 'Loving his job, and breaking all the girls' hearts, I shouldn't wonder.'

Much as I hate to admit it, I adore my brother. Twenty-six years old, drop-dead gorgeous, he has me in fits of laughter whenever I see him, which isn't nearly as often as I'd like. He's the kind of person that everyone instantly adores, and, although I sometimes feel I ought to be jealous of that, of his easy-going nature, I'm not, and the only time I get slightly pissed off with him is when he tells me to lay off Mum.

When we were children, though, I hated him. I hated him for always being clever, and sporty, and popular. For never putting a foot wrong, for so obviously being Mum's favourite. And then, when I left home to go to university, things suddenly changed, and on my first holiday at home he stopped being an annoying little brother and started being an equal.

It helped that he began smoking as well, and we'd both lock ourselves in my room and puff furiously out the window, spraying huge amounts of sickly sweet air freshener around when we finished. He was the first person to introduce me to spliff, showing me how to take a large Rizla and sprinkle it first with tobacco, then slightly burnt bits of hash, and roll it into a joint, suspiciously similar to a super-plus Tampax.

But naturally Mum never knew. She'd shout and scream at me for drinking or smoking or coming back late at night, but Olly could do no wrong, and the older I got the more we laughed about it together, and suddenly Olly was sticking up for me and telling Mum that I hadn't been drinking, or shagging, or whatever.

And she'd listen to Olly. She'd start off on a rant, and Olly would come in and say he'd bumped into me earlier and I'd been with Susie, and she must have got the wrong end of the stick, and she'd believe him!

We even talked about sharing a flat together for a while, but then I decided that, love him as I do, I couldn't put up with his mess, so I got the flat and he got the job in Manchester.

And he's happy. He loves it there. He rents a huge flat in Didsbury, works for a large TV company as a producer, and hits all the clubs on the weekend. He doesn't have a serious girlfriend — relationship trouble must run in the family — but he has more than his fair share of flings. I call him every weekend, usually waking him from the depths of yet another killer hangover, and more often than not he has to call me back when the result of last night's session has put her make-up on and gone.

And he's the best person to sort out my love life, other than Jules. He's not as wise as Jules, but he's bloody good at giving the male perspective on things, and I've spent many hours on the phone to him working out strategies for catching the man of my dreams.

'How's his job?' I ask, because I've been a bit too caught up with my own life to call him recently.

'He's got a new programme about food,' she says proudly, puffing out her chest with pride, because television producing is something she knows about. At least she should do, the amount of TV she watches. PR, as far as she's concerned, doesn't count. She can't boast about her daughter working in PR because she's never really understood what it's all about, even though I've tried to explain it a million times, and anyway she doesn't think I should be working. She thinks I should be at home cooking delicious meals for my husband, who's out making lots of money to keep me and my ten children in the style to which she'd like me to become accustomed. Anyone would think she was living in the bloody Dark Ages. But a television producer? That's something she understands, something she has tangible evidence of, and 'my son the television producer'? It's become her catchphrase.

'Food?' I laugh. 'But Olly doesn't know the first thing about food, unless it's about takeaway curries and hamburgers.'

'It's called The Gourmet Vegetarian! Evidently she's decided to ignore my last comment.

'The Gourmet what?' Now this I really can't believe. 'But Olly's your classic meat and two veg man.'

'I know,' she says,' and quite frankly I don't understand all this vegetarian nonsense, I'm convinced you all do it because it's fashionable, but there it is.' And she looks at me pointedly while I glance away because any chance to get a dig in and she'll be there with a shovel.

Yes, okay, so? I was vegetarian once, for about eighteen months, and I could say that it was because of cruelty to animals, but actually it was because all my friends were doing it so I decided to do it too. And it was fine. I didn't even miss meat. But all that stuff about vegetarians being healthy is crap. Sure, it's true if you eat salads and nuts all the time, but me? I lived on bread, cheese, eggs and pastry, and I ballooned. I remember the first time I ate meat again, I was out with some friends — different ones, carnivores — and we'd gone to get Chinese takeaway and I stood in the shop, smelling all these delicious smells, and everyone was ordering sweet and sour pork and lemon chicken, and I stood there and thought, fuck it. If I have to eat stir-fried vegetables again I'm going to scream, so I didn't. I had barbecued pork spare ribs. And it was delicious. And I never looked back.

But Olly making a programme about gourmet anything is ridiculous. And I say so.

'He's already reading cookery books,' says Mum proudly, 'and you know Olly, he'll be an expert before you know it. I can't think why neither of you has inherited my cooking skills.'

'I can cook!' I practically shout.

'Libby, dear, spag bol is hardly cooking.'

'Excuse me, Mum, but, bearing in mind you've never eaten at my flat, how would you know whether I can cook or not?

'As it happens,' I continue, on a bit of a roll now, 'I'm an excellent cook.'

'Are you?' she says, sounding bored. 'So what's your best dish?'

Shit. I sit there trying to think of something and nope, the mind's gone blank.

'I can cook anything,' I bluster.

'Yes, dear,' she says, and that's it. I've had enough.

'I've got to go,' I say, standing up and going over to my dad to kiss him goodbye.

'Off so soon?' he says, lowering the newspaper again.

'Yup. You know how it is. Things to do, people to see.'

'But Libby,' says Mum, 'you've only been here five minutes.'

More like a bloody hour, and whatever it is it's about an hour too long.

'Sorry, Mum. I'll speak to you in the week,' and I dash out before she can start making me feel guilty.

I get in the minicab I called earlier and switch my mobile on immediately. Damn. No messages. But what was I expecting? That Nick would call and say he was missing me? Hardly. But then it starts to ring and Jules's number appears on the little screen and I pick up the phone.

'Where've you been?' she moans. 'Your mobile's been off. I hate it when you do that.'

'Sorry,' I say, settling back into the car seat and lighting a fag before I look up and see my mum twitching at the curtains. 'Shit. Hold on.' I haven't even told the bloody driver where we're going. 'Ladbroke Grove,' I say to him, and I wave at my mum as we crawl down the street until I'm out of view, and then I put the phone back to my ear. Mobile phones, naturally, are yet another 'modern appliance' my mother can't quite get to grips with.

'So?' she says.

'So?' I laugh.

'So how was it?'

'Amazing,' I say. 'It was so nice, he's so nice.'

'And did you stay at his?'

'Yup. And we had fantastic sex again.' I drop my voice to a whisper so the driver can't hear.

'And is his flat as disgusting as you thought?'

'Oh God, Jules,' I groan. 'Worse. Much, much worse.'

'How so?'

'Just such a bloody mess. Honestly, Jules, it's a good job this is just a fling because I couldn't live like that, I don't know how he manages.'

'Was it dirty?'

'No, although the sheets didn't exactly smell of Persil, but it was just grotty.'

'Okay. The real test is the bathroom. Doesn't matter what the rest of the flat's like as long as they've got a decent bathroom.'

Hmm. Interesting. 'Actually, the bathroom was fine. Nice, in fact. And he lied about not having a bath!'

'No stains to be seen?'

'No. Sparkling clean.'

'Thank God for that. I don't care if a man lives in a pit as long as he's clean.'

'He's definitely clean,' I say, remembering his lovely, clean, masculine smell.

'You're not in love, then?'

'God no! We ended up having a chat about things last night.' I relay the conversation, word for word, touch for touch, to Jules, who listens carefully and then says the same bloody thing as yesterday.

'You're sure you can handle it?'

'Of course! Jules, listen, if I thought he was going to be serious I'd tell you, wouldn't I?'

'Hmm.'

'But anyway, after that talk we both know exactly where we stand and it's fine.'

'As long as you don't get hurt.'

'Shut up, Jules, you know I hate that expression.'

And it's true. I do. Why do people bother saying it, I mean what's the choice? You lock yourself away in an attic and never go out because you're frightened of getting hurt? Bollocks. As far as I'm concerned you have to give every relationship your all because if you're going to get hurt, you're going to get hurt, but at least at the end of it you'll know you gave it your best shot.

Although I'm not planning to give this relationship, or fling, or whatever this is, my all, at least not when we're out of the bedroom. No, this feels good. Healthy. I'm in control, and that's something I have very little experience of. Hell, I haven't even thought of Nick since I left him. Not much. Oh, okay, not as much as I've thought about boyfriends in the past, then. Happy now?

You probably think I'm lying, but it's true, because in the past I've thought about new boyfriends every second of every day. Well, almost. This is what I've never understood about men. No matter how crazy they are about you, they can get on with their lives, their work, their friends, and not give you a second thought. When they do think of you, which is generally when they're not thinking of anything else, they'll pick up the phone and call you, completely oblivious to the fact that you've been sitting there crying for a week because they haven't called.

Personally I think it's because men are crap at juggling. I'm not talking about juggling work and children and all that rubbish, but just doing more than one thing at once. Women can iron, watch TV, chat on the phone and answer the doorbell all at the same time, but men? Men can only do one thing at one time. Ever try chatting to a man when he's trying to park the car? Exactly. He'll ignore you because he can only concentrate on one thing at a time. So we get on with our lives while they take up space in our heads, rent-free, and they get on with their lives without giving us another thought.

And I'm not saying that our way is right. Jesus. The number of times I've wished I could stop thinking about someone and get on with work, but I can't. Once they're in your head, they're there for keeps until they either dump you or you manage to get over them. To be honest I find the whole process completely exhausting, and that's why, sitting in the car on the phone to Jules, I decide that I'm not going to do it this time. In fact, I'm fed up with talking about him, remembering him, analysing him.

'Jules, I've got to go,' I say.

'Why? Where are you going?'

'Home, but I've got to get into a bath and I'm in a minicab and I really can't talk.'

'Okay. Will you call me later?'

'Yup. Are you in?'

'Yup.'

And when I get home I jump in the bath and, as I lie there, soaking in lavender bubbles, I remind myself that I'm not going to think about Nick, but then I think, a few thoughts wouldn't hurt, so I decide to allow myself three minutes of thinking about Nick and that's it, at least for today.

So once his three minutes are up I pick up a book and start reading, and every time Nick threatens to creep back into my head (which is about once every two pages) I push him out again until I'm so immersed in the book I genuinely don't think about him, and when Jules calls me later I'm in the middle of a good Sunday night film which, I think you'll agree, is a perfectly valid reason not to talk to your best friend given that TV's normally shit on a Sunday night, and by the time I climb into bed I'm so tired I haven't got the energy to think about Nick even if I wanted to. Which I don't. Just in case you're wondering.