oday is the day I'm going to phone Ed. Definitely. I thought about it last night, and Jules is absolutely right, I should be going out with other men, and I know he's not really my type, but what the hell. I am, as my mother reminded me, twenty-seven years old and I suppose what it's all about is a numbers game: go out with enough men and one of them's bound to be Mr Right.

But in the meantime I've got my hands completely full at work. I'm trying to organize the launch for this TV series, and I've just finished the press release inviting all the journalists and photographers, when who should call up but Amanda Baker.

Not what I need right now at all.

'Hi, darling,' she says, which throws me ever so slightly, because she's not the sort of person I'd ever darling, and she's never done this to me before, but I suppose since her recent radio appearances she's forgiven me my apparent lack of work on her behalf, and now she's treating me as if we're best friends.

'I thought we could go out for lunch,' she says. 'You know, a girls' lunch. You and me.'

I'm so flummoxed I don't know what to say, so I stammer for a while, wondering what on earth is going on.

'Are you free today?' she says. 'It's just that I'm so busy at the moment, but I'd love to see you and I thought we might go to Quo Vadis.'

Now that's done it for me, because needless to say I haven't been to Quo Vadis yet, and it's one of those restaurants that you really ought to go to at least once, if only to say that you've been there.

'I'd love to,' I say. 'Shall I meet you there?'

'Perfect,' she says. 'Book the table for one fifteen. All right, darling, see you later.' And she's gone, leaving me sitting there looking at the receiver in my hand and wondering why on earth I'm supposed to book the table when she invited me?

So I'm walking round the office in a bemused fashion, asking if anyone's got the number for Quo Vadis, when Joe Cooper walks out of his office and says, 'That's very posh. How come you're going to Quo Vadis?'

'This is really odd, Joe,' I say. 'Amanda Baker just phoned and invited me out for lunch, which is completely peculiar in itself because up until pretty damn recently I was her worst enemy, and I suddenly seem to have become her best friend, and then she asked me to book the table. All a bit weird.'

Joe throws back his head with laughter. 'Libby,' he says. 'This is Amanda's trick, she's done this with every PR she's ever worked with. She starts off mistrusting you and the minute you actually get her some coverage she decides you're her best friend. Don't worry about it, look at it this way, at least it will make your life easier.'

I shrug. 'S'pose so.' And I scribble down the number on a yellow Post-it note and go to call the restaurant.

It's half past one, and I'm sitting at a window table trying to see out the stained-glass and wondering what they do when it gets really hot in here, because there aren't any window latches so they can't open the windows. I'm trying to look very cool, as if I'm someone famous, because it seems that almost everybody else in here is. I've already spotted three television presenters, two pop stars, and the people at the table next to me are talking about their latest film, and since I don't recognize them I presume they're behind the camera, as it were. And no, I'm not trying to earwig, it's just that it's bloody difficult when you're sitting on your own not to hear what the table next door is talking about when they're so close to you they're practically sitting in your lap, and where the hell is Amanda anyway?

I ask for another Kir and puff away on my fourth cigarette, when I suddenly hear a familiar 'Darling!' and look up and see Amanda kiss her way through the restaurant, greeting all the minor celebrities as if she's known them for ever, and to my immense surprise they do all know her, and I suddenly feel quite pleased that she's meeting me, and I'm even more pleased when she sweeps up to the table and gives me two air kisses before sitting down.

'Darling,' she says, evidently in a much more ebullient mood than when we last met. 'You look fab.'

'So do you,' I say. 'It's lovely to see you.'

'I thought that we really ought to get to know each other a bit better,' she says, glancing round the room as she speaks, presumably just in case she's missing anything.

She orders a sparkling mineral water from the waiter, and we sit and make small talk for a while, and then, once we've ordered — me from the set lunch menu at £15.95 and Amanda from the a la carte menu — the conversation turns, as it so often does with single women, to men.

'Well, you know' — she leans forward conspiratorially — 'my last affair was with…' She leans even closer and whispers the name of a well-known TV anchorman in my ear, then sits back to note my admiration, because the anchorman in question is indeed gorgeous, and I would normally tell you, but somehow I don't think Amanda would want you to know, because as well as being gorgeous he's also very married, and it wouldn't do his image any good at all.

But trust me. It's great gossip.

'So what happened?'

'He came out with all the usual shit about loving his wife but not being in love with her, and how they slept in separate beds, and he was only with her because it was good for his profile, and that he was going to leave her, he'd had enough. But of course he didn't.'

'Amazing, isn't it?' I say. 'Whenever our friends get involved with married men we hear about what they say and it's always the same and we always tell our friends that he's never going to leave her, but the minute it happens to us, the minute we meet a married man and he says he loves his wife but he's not in love with her, we believe him.'

'I know,' she laughs, but there's a tinge of bitterness in her laugh. 'I really thought I was more clever than that. I really thought that he was different, that he was going to leave.'

'So what made you realize he wasn't?'

'When I opened the pages of Hello! and read how excited they both were that she was pregnant again with their sixth child.'

'Jesus.' I exhale loudly and sit back. 'That must have hurt.'

'It was a killer,' she says. 'So now I'm back on the dating scene, which is hell, really, because even though I'm famous…'

I suppress a snort.

'… I just don't seem to meet any decent men. To be honest I think they're all a bit intimidated by me.'

'I can understand that,' I say.

'Really?' she says. 'Why do you think it is?'

'Oh, er. Well, because you're famous, and you're very bright, and very attractive.' I see her face fall. 'I mean, you're beautiful, and that scares a lot of men off.'

'I know,' she nods. 'You're absolutely right.'

'It's the same for me,' I say, and wait for her to ask me about my own love life, but she doesn't, and then I think how stupid I am to think a celebrity, even one as minor as Amanda, would be interested in anyone other than themselves. But fuck it. I want to talk about this. I need to talk about this. And somehow, sitting right here with this woman who's more than a stranger but not quite a friend, I find myself telling her all about it, which I suspect throws her a bit, because she's far more used to talking about herself than to listening to other people, but I can't help it. It all comes out.

'So,' I end, having spoken non-stop for the last twenty minutes, 'now there's this guy Ed pursuing me and I really don't know whether to call him, because even though he's nice enough I just can't see a future in it and I guess I'm still hung up on Nick, even though I know there's no future in that either.'

'Ed who?' Amanda asks, a flicker of interest in her eyes.

'I don't know,' I say, and I laugh, because I'm so uninterested I haven't even bothered to look at his business card. 'Hang on,' I say, fishing around in my bag. 'His card's here somewhere.'

I find my diary and pull out the card, glancing at it briefly. 'Ed McMahon.'

'You're joking!' Amanda's gasping across the table at me. 'No.' She shakes her head. 'It can't be.' She grabs the card and starts laughing as she reads it.' Oh my God, Libby! Ed McMahon! Don't you know who he is?'

I shake my head.

'He's only one of the most eligible bachelors in Britain. I can't believe you pulled Ed McMahon and you didn't even realize who he was!'

'Who is he, then?'

'He's a financial whizzkid who everyone's talking about, because he seemed to appear out of nowhere. He's single, hugely rich and supposedly unbelievably intelligent. I've never met him, but my friend Robert knows him really well. I've been begging him to fix me up with him, but Robert keeps saying we wouldn't get on.'

'But Amanda,' I say slowly, 'have you seen him? He's not exactly an oil painting.' I laugh, although suddenly I'm slightly more interested in Ed. Not a lot, just slightly.

'So?' she says. 'With his kind of money, who cares?'

'How come, if he's so rich and so eligible, he hasn't got a girlfriend?'

'That's the odd thing,' she says. 'He doesn't seem to have much luck with women. Robert says it's because he's a bit eccentric, but I don't really know.'

'Well,' I say, 'maybe I will call him, then.'

'Call him?' Amanda snorts. 'Marry him, more like.'

By the end of our lunch, and I swear, no one is more surprised by this than me, I've made two decisions. One is to call Ed McMahon this afternoon, and the other is that I quite like Amanda Baker. Okay, she's not someone whom I'd normally consider being friends with, but, after our bit of female bonding over lunch, I think she's quite sweet really, and as we leave I decide that I'm going to try to get her a bit more coverage, work a bit harder for her. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that she's my new best friend or anything, it's just that she's all right, she's one of us, if you know what I'm saying.

So I go back to the office and pull out Ed McMahon's business card again, and I sit for a while looking at it, and then I pick up the phone and dial his number.

'Hello, is Ed McMahon there, please?'

'Who may I say is calling?'

'Libby Mason.'

'And will he know what it's in connection with?'

'Yes.'

'May I tell him?'

'Tell him what?'

'What it's in connection with?'

'It's, umm. Don't worry. He'll know.' What is this, for heaven's sake? The Spanish Inquisition?

And then there's a silence, and I sit and listen to piped music for a while, and finally, just when I'm about to give up, Ed comes on the phone.

'Libby?'

'Ed?'

'Libby! I'm so delighted you phoned. I was so worried you didn't get my messages.'

'I'm sorry,' I say, 'I've been running around like a mad woman, I've been so busy'

'Never mind, never mind. You've phoned now! I was giving up hope! When are you free for dinner?'

'I'll just look in my diary,' I say, looking in my diary. 'When were you thinking of?'

'Tomorrow night?'

Naturally there's nothing in my diary for tomorrow night, but do I really want to see this man so soon? Nah, I don't think I do, I think I'd be much happier staying in and watching the box.

'I'm sorry,' I say, sounding as if I mean it. 'But this week's horrendous. How about next week, that's looking pretty clear.'

'Oh, umm. Okay. Actually, what about the weekend? Saturday night?'

Now Saturday night's a big night. Saturday night is not a night to give up for just anyone, particularly a man I don't even fancy, but then again, he's bound to take me somewhere nice, and he may not be Nick, but he is one of the most eligible men in Britain, and I really ought to be a bit more excited about this than I am, so okay, I'm game on.

And Ed is so excited I can practically hear him jumping up and down. He takes my address and I laugh to myself, wondering what he'll make of my tiny little basement flat in grotty Ladbroke Grove, because he must live in some unbelievable mansion somewhere, but I don't really care what he thinks, and he says he'll pick me up at eight and book somewhere special.

I say goodbye and ring Jules without even putting down the phone.

'I have a date with one of the most eligible men in Britain on Saturday night!' I say, and I do add an unspoken exclamation mark at the end of my sentence, because actually I'm pretty damn pleased with myself.

'Who?'

'Ed McMahon.'

'Ed? Ed that we met?'

'Yup.'

'What do you mean, one of the most eligible bachelors in Britain?'

I repeat, word for word, what Amanda told me over lunch.

'Jesus,' she says. 'That's a result. And he sounds much more you than that Nick.'

See? Already Nick's become 'that Nick' — not someone involved in my life, someone in my past, someone who never had a future.

'In what way?'

'Oh, come on, Libby, he'll probably take you to amazing places and buy you wonderful presents and you'll love every minute of it.'

'Jules, I think you're jumping a bit ahead of yourself here. I mean, I hardly know the guy, and I certainly don't fancy him. At least, I didn't the other night.'

'Fine,' she laughs. 'Let's just wait and see.'

I wake up on Saturday and have to admit that, while I'm not exactly jumping with joy at the prospect of tonight's date with Ed, I do have slight butterflies, but I suspect that's more to do with having a date at all rather than who the date's with. And I still miss Nick.

I get all the boring chores done — dry cleaners; cleaning the flat; sorting out all the shit I don't have time for during the week — and then, after I've settled in front of the Brookside omnibus, I start planning what to wear.

A black suit, I decide. A suit that's smart, sophisticated, and always makes me feel fantastic. But I don't want to look too straight, even though, from what I remember, Ed would make Pall Mall look positively curvy, so I team it with very high-heeled black strappy sandals and a beautiful grey silk scarf tied softly at my neck.

And I look in the mirror and I smile to myself because I certainly look the part, even if I don't feel it inside, and I feel that I can hold my head up high and walk in anywhere feeling good.

Not that I know where Ed's planning to take me, but I'm sure it will be somewhere expensive and impressive, and whenever I go to places like that I like to feel well-armed, and the best way of feeling like that is to look fantastic, preferably in designer clothes.

And the flat looks perfect. Well, as perfect as it can look. I even bought armfuls of flowers this morning, and I have to say I'm quite proud of the place, even though I know Ed will probably never have seen anything this small. I've done away with the clutter. At least, I've swept it under the sofa and into cupboards, so it looks pristine. I've sprayed air freshener around, so it smells like a summer meadow, or so it says on the can, and okay, it wouldn't pass my mother's inspection, but I'm damn sure it would pass everyone else's.

The only thing I haven't bothered to do is change the sheets, or even shave my legs when it comes to that, because I'm absolutely sure that I will not be going to bed with Ed, or anyone else for that matter, for a while yet, and at the grand old age of twenty-seven I've realized that the best contraception of all is hairy legs.

So my outer perfection hides my lower layer of stubble and greying Marks & Spencer knickers, but it hardly matters tonight, and I don't believe all that rubbish about you feeling more sexy when you're wearing sexy underwear. It's crap. As far as I'm concerned you feel more sexy when you've lost weight and you're having a good hair day. Simple as that.

And tonight I have lost weight (I've been practically starving myself since my mother's comment), I'm back to my usual, and I'm having a good hair day, so, when the doorbell rings at eight on the dot, I walk confidently to the door and open it with a gracious smile.