e go to the Ivy, and Ed seems to know an awful lot of people in there, and I'm really beginning to enjoy being with this man who's so sophisticated and yet so naïve at the same time. Because he is naïve. He's somehow slightly gauche, awkward, and it's probably his most endearing quality.

He orders champagne and, as we raise our glasses, I hear a familiar swooping voice.

'Libby! Darling!' And I turn around and there, resplendent in a tiny black dress, is Amanda. I give her the obligatory air kisses, and then she just stands there, looking at me, then at Ed, and I introduce them.

And it's quite extraordinary, because Ed stands up to shake her hand, and Amanda starts simpering like an idiot, fluttering her eyelashes and being all coy, and I'm really quite embarrassed for her, and I breathe a sigh of relief when she finally leaves.

'Who was that?'

'Amanda Baker. She's a television presenter.'

'I see. Is she famous?'

'Not as famous as she'd like to be.'

'Ha ha! That's very good, Libby. How do you know her?'

'I do her PR.'

'So you could make her famous, then?'

'It's sort of catch-22. You can't be famous without being written about, and nobody wants to write about someone who isn't famous. But I'm trying.'

'I don't watch much television, that's probably why I didn't recognize her. I only ever seem to watch the news.'

'What do you do if you're at home at night?'

'Work usually. Listen to music.'

'So if I told you I was in love with Dr Doug Ross it wouldn't mean anything to you?'

His face falls. 'Who's Dr Doug Ross?'

'Never mind,' I laugh. 'You wouldn't understand.'

The food's delicious, the champagne's delicious, and I'm loving sitting here star-spotting, although every time I whisper that another celebrity has just walked in, Ed stares at them in confusion, and it's quite amazing that he really doesn't have a clue who these people are. I mean, for God's sake, some of the people that have walked in here tonight are the biggest stars of stage and screen, and Ed's never seen them before in his life!

'Libby,' he says, when we're waiting for our coffees. 'I think you're extraordinary. I've never met anyone like you.'

'Thank you. Really? How?' I know you're not supposed to fish for compliments, but I can't help it, and after Nick I deserve to have my ego inflated a little bit.

'You're just so bright, and sparky, and full of life. I really enjoy being with you. And…' He pauses.

'And?' I prompt.

'Well, I'm not sure whether I should say this yet, and it probably sounds ridiculous, but I really like you.'

'That doesn't sound ridiculous.'

'No. I mean I really like you.'

'I like you too.'

'Good. And I think we might have something special here.'

I smile. I mean, what could I say? The guy hardly knows me.

'I thought you might like to see my house,' he says, on the way back.

'I'd love to!' which is true, I want to know more about him, more about where he lives, how he lives. I want to nose around his home and look for clues about who he is, whether I could be happy with him.

Please don't think I'm sounding ridiculous. It's not that I've decided he's The One or anything, but I do have a worrying tendency to, how shall I put it, plan ahead. The number of times I've sat in bed dreaming of my marriage to someone I've had one date with. And, although I don't fancy Ed, it's quite good fun dreaming about it anyway. To be honest, he wouldn't figure that strongly in this particular daydream. Nah, when I daydream about getting married I'm far more concerned about the dress, the location, the bridesmaids. The groom tends to be a faceless person, he's really not that important.

So while I'm not planning the wedding just yet, I'd still like to see his home.

We pull up outside a sweeping terrace, and the thing I find most strange about where he lives is not the size or the grandeur, but the fact that someone his age lives there at all. I know he said he bought it as a family home, but it seems crazy to live somewhere that feels so middle-aged when you're still relatively young. And anyway, if I got married I'd want to buy a new home together, start afresh; I wouldn't want to move into the place he already lived in.

The hallway floor is one of those black and white marble numbers, and I can see that Ed's incredibly proud of his house as he flings open the doors to the most spectacular drawing room I've ever seen. Huge, airy, with stunning original mouldings on the walls and ceiling, it's completely empty.

'Umm, have you recently moved in?' I ask.

'No. I've lived here for two years!' he says.

'What about furniture?'

'I've never got around to buying any,' he says, shrugging. 'I suppose I'm waiting for my wife to come in and redecorate.'

'But you could have got an interior designer to do it.'

'I did!' he says indignantly, pointing at the swagged, pelmeted curtains.

'Oh. Right,' I say.

He leads me upstairs to his bedroom. Immaculate and huge, it leads into an enormous dressing room, lined wall to wall with cupboards, and then through to an en suite bathroom.

Next door is his study, and upstairs there's a gym, a sauna and more empty bedrooms. And more. And more. They seem to stretch on for ever, and I honestly feel as if I've stumbled into a ghost house, because it's quite clear that none of these rooms is ever used. There's no warmth in this house, it's a museum, a showpiece, and I start to feel increasingly uncomfortable here.

We go downstairs to the basement. A country-style kitchen, and I breathe a sigh of relief because next to the kitchen there are sofas, and french doors leading on to a garden. Judging by the amount of books and papers piled around the room, this is the place he lives in.

And it really is quite cosy. Not perhaps exactly as I'd do it. I'd get rid of those dried flowers hanging from the ceiling for starters, but it's not at all bad.

Ed goes into the kitchen to make some coffee, and I sit and look around the room, deciding what I'd change if I lived here. I'd have the sofas re-covered in a bright blue and yellow chequered fabric, I'd get rid of that revolting limed kitchen table and put in an old scrubbed pine one, I'd…

'Do you like it?' Ed interrupts my thoughts.

'Your house?'

He nods.

'I think it's spectacular,' I say, because it undoubtedly is, but I decide against telling him it's a bit like a morgue. 'But don't you get a bit lonely rattling around in this huge place by yourself?'

'Yes,' he says, suddenly looking like a little boy lost. 'At times I do.'

And he looks so sweet I want to hug him.

He comes to sit next to me on the sofa, and the air suddenly feels a lot more oppressive, and I know he's going to kiss me, but I'm not sure I want him to. I try to avoid looking at him, keeping my eyes fixed firmly on my coffee, because I can feel he's staring at me, and I'm praying, Jesus how I'm praying, that he doesn't put his coffee cup down.

He puts his coffee cup down.

And he sneaks an arm around the back of the sofa, not yet touching me, and I want to run out of there screaming because at this moment I know as an absolute certainty that I don't want to kiss him.

This, it has to be said, is a bit of a new feeling for me. If I bother going out with someone again after a first date, then it's because I fancy them, and I spend the rest of the second date praying they'll kiss me and wondering how they'll do it.

I remember Jon didn't kiss me until date number six. On date number four I was convinced it was going to happen. We'd been to the cinema, he dropped me home, and even after he declined coffee — he said he had an early meeting — I sat in the car with my face raised expectantly. He just smiled and kissed me on each cheek.

Two dates later he cooked me dinner at his flat, and after dinner I was standing in the kitchen helping him wash up, wondering whether I'd completely misjudged the situation and thinking he was only interested in me as a friend, when suddenly he grabbed me and started kissing me, and minutes later we'd sunk to the kitchen floor in a frenzy of passion.

And I remember how desperate I was for him to kiss me, so why am I so desperate for Ed not to kiss me now?

And more to the point, what the hell am I supposed to do? Suddenly, and I'm not really sure how this happens, suddenly he's kissing me, and I wish to God I could tell you that it was lovely, that my stomach turned over with lust, that I suddenly started to fancy him…

It was revolting.

You know how you forget what bad kissers are like when you haven't encountered a bad kisser for years? I'd forgotten. This was like the snogs of my teenage years, with spotty boys who were trying to be grown men, who didn't have a clue.

And I wish I could pinpoint exactly what it was that was so revolting, but I can't. Too much tongue. Too much saliva. Too much moustache. Yuck. Not nice at all. So I pull away and resist the urge to wipe my mouth with my sleeve, and I think that nothing, nothing will make me kiss him again.

Not even the Porsche.

But I don't mind cuddling him, and he puts his arms round me and that's quite nice, at least it would be if I wasn't so tense at the prospect of him kissing me again.

'Libby,' he says after nuzzling my neck for a while. 'I think I'd better take you home.'

What? What? He's supposed to ask me to stay the night and I'm supposed to turn him down. What is this? He's supposed to be dying of lust for me, every fibre in his body aching for me. He's not supposed to want to take me home.

I know, I know. Never mind the fact that I don't want him, he's still supposed to want me. But at least it means I won't have to kiss him again.

We get in the car, and this time Ed keeps a hand on my thigh all the way back, but the funny thing is it's not sexual somehow, more proprietorial, and, although I wish he'd take it off, I'm not quite sure how to tell him, so I do an awful lot of shuffling around and crossing and uncrossing my legs, but the hand stays.

'When can I see you again?' he says, walking me to the front door of my flat and insisting on holding my hand.

'Well, I'm a bit busy this week,' I say.

'Oh.' His face falls. 'Actually, I wanted to invite you to a ball.'

'A ball? What kind of ball?' My mother's voice echoes in my head: go out with him because you never know what his friends are like.

'Some friends of mine in the country are having their annual ball. I think you'd really like them, and I'd love you to come.'

'When is it?'

He tells me it's the weekend after next, and I tell him that I'd love to come.

'Do you have anything to wear?'

'I'm sure I've got something.'

'Look, I hope you don't think this too forward of me, but I'd really like to buy you something special. Would you allow me to?'

What am I, stupid? As if I'm going to turn this down.

'If you're sure,' I say.

'Absolutely. Why don't we go shopping on Saturday?'

My brain starts ticking quickly. Shopping. Daytime. No public displays of affection, therefore no kissing.

'That sounds lovely.'

'Great! I'll see you on Saturday.' His arms encircle my waist and his head moves in again, so I give him a few pecks on the lips, which aren't too bad really, and then with a mysterious smile I move away and go into my flat.

Quite well handled, if I say so myself.

But once I'm home, back in the safety of my flat, I start thinking about that kiss, and then, I can't help it, I start thinking about Nick kissing me, about how it made me feel, and that leads to other memories of Nick, and before I know it I'm sitting on my sofa with tears streaming down my cheeks, and Jesus Christ, haven't there been enough tears recently to last me a lifetime?

I miss him. I can't help it. I just miss him. And Ed, nice as he is, isn't Nick and never will be.

But it's funny how sometimes a little cry makes you feel a whole hell of a lot better, and when I've finished I feel sort of resigned. I know that it's over with Nick, and I know that I don't feel the same about Ed, but maybe love doesn't have to be about lust, maybe I could learn to love Ed. Maybe.

'Nah. I don't think there's any point.'

'But he's so nice, Jules! Maybe it could grow.'

'Libby, when he kissed you, you felt sick. What could grow, exactly?'

'I don't know,' I huff. 'Maybe I need to get used to his kissing.'

'Then go for it.'

'God, you're no help at all.'

'Well, what am I supposed to say? I tell you not to bother and you say he's really nice, so I tell you to keep seeing him and you tell me I'm not helping. I can't win with you.'

'Sorry,' I grumble, curling my feet up under me on the sofa in Jules's kitchen.

'So what's going on now?' Jamie walks in, bends down and gives me a kiss on the cheek before ruffling Jules's hair as he heads to put the kettle on, and something about this affectionate gesture suddenly makes me feel incredibly lonely.

I want this too. I want someone who will adore me so much that they cannot even walk past me without touching me in some way. I want someone who will worship me, even when — as Jules is now — I'm sitting around in fluffy slippers with no make-up on and hair scraped back.

I'm sick and tired of being on my own. Most of the time I'm fine. Some of the time I even quite enjoy it. But at this precise moment in time I'm fed up with it. I've had enough. I'm twenty-seven years old and I deserve to be with someone. I deserve to live in a beautiful house, not a grotty little flat in Ladbroke Grove. I deserve to be with someone who brings me flowers and buys me presents. I deserve to be in a couple, someone's other half.

'More man problems?' Jamie says from the other end of the kitchen.

'Naturally,' I say. 'Isn't it always?'

Jamie brings three mugs of coffee over and sits down. 'Jules said you'd been out with Ed McMahon. Bit of a catch, I'd say.'

'I know,' I moan. 'But I don't fancy him.'

'Ah,' says Jamie. 'That could be a problem. But he's meant to be a nice guy. Maybe you need to give it time.'

'Tell him about the kissing.' Jules prods me.

I tell him about the kissing. I even tell him about the tongues, saliva and moustache bit.

Jamie makes a face. 'I've got to be honest, Libs, it doesn't sound good.'

'And meanwhile,' Jules interrupts, 'he's taking her shopping for a ballgown on Saturday.'

'Look on the bright side,' Jamie says. 'At least you'll get a designer outfit out of it.'

On Friday afternoon another bouquet arrives. This is getting silly. And what's even more ridiculous is that I'm becoming so used to getting flowers from Ed that I'm beginning to take them a little bit for granted. And my flat's looking less like a florist's and more like Kew Gardens every day.

God, will you listen to me?

Sorry, sorry, sorry. It's typical, isn't it? For twenty-seven years I've wanted someone who adores me and now I've found that person I just can't seem to get excited. Why can't I fancy him? Why can't I make myself fancy him? Maybe I can. Let's just see what happens on Saturday.

In the meantime I'm not going to send him anything else because quite frankly I'm not entirely sure whether I should be encouraging him. Not until I'm a bit more clear about how I feel, anyway.

And then a very peculiar thing happens. Just after the flowers arrive the phone rings.

'Libby? It's Nick.'

'Nick who?' I'm so distracted by the flowers I'm not quite thinking straight.

'What do you mean, Nick who? Thanks a lot. It wasn't that long ago, surely.'

'Nick!' My heart starts pounding. Perhaps he's changed his mind. Perhaps he's ringing because he misses me so much he's realized he's made a terrible mistake. Perhaps it will all be okay.

'Libby!'

'Oh my God! I'm so sorry! I was distracted. Hi!' I'm fighting to sound as normal as possible, and it's a hard struggle, but I think I'm winning.

'Hello, my darling. I was just sitting here doing nothing and I was thinking about you so I thought I'd phone and see how you are.'

He called me darling! He was thinking about me!

'I'm absolutely great,' I say, with conviction, because of course, now that he's phoned, I am. 'How are you?'

'Oh, you know. Usual. Trying to write but can't seem to concentrate. Plus, I'm still trying to get over the most mind-blowing hangover.'

'Where did you go? Anywhere nice?' I feel a huge twinge of jealousy at the thought that Nick might have been with another woman, and I pray that he wasn't, that he was somewhere dull. My prayers, for once, are answered.

'Just down the pub with Moose and that lot.'

Thank God. At least I know he couldn't have fancied any of those awful women. God. Moose. Those friends. I suddenly remember that awful night, and, as I remember how awkward I felt, how out of place, I realize that even though I adored Nick, I couldn't have done it. I couldn't have continued with that lifestyle, and suddenly I feel like laughing, because for the first time I realize I won't ever have to go to a pub with Moose and that lot again. And not only that, I'll never have to sleep in that filthy bedsit again. And I realize that for the first time in my life I might actually be able to stay friends with an ex-lover, and that for the first time in my life I want to stay friends with an ex-lover. And I really don't want anything more from him. Honestly.

'A heavy session?' I laugh, thrilled at this feeling of being set free.

'A very heavy session,' he groans. 'But I'm paying for it now. So what have you been up to? I've been thinking about you.'

'Have you? That's nice. I've been very busy, actually. Everything's going really well.'

There's a short silence before Nick asks, 'How's your love life?'

'Umm. Well…' Oh fuck it. Why not? 'I've sort of met someone.'

There's a long silence.

'That's great, Libby!' he says finally, but if I didn't know better I'd say he didn't think it was great at all. 'Who is he?'

'Just a guy. I don't know whether it's anything serious,' I say. 'Really, nothing to write home about, but he's nice, he treats me well.'

'What does he do?'

'Investment banker.'

Nick groans. 'So he can afford to take you to all the places I never could?'

'Yup!' I say, and laugh.

'I knew you hated me not having money,' Nick says suddenly.

'No, I didn't, Nick. I just hated staying the night in your disgusting bedsit.'

We both laugh.

'I suppose now you're staying the night in Buckingham Palace?'

'Hanover Terrace, actually.' I don't bother mentioning the fact that I don't even like kissing my new man, let alone thinking about going to bed with him.

'Seriously, Libby,' he says. 'I'm really happy that you've found someone.'

'Are you?'

'Well, okay then, not really. Well, sort of. I am happy, but I'm also really sorry that things didn't work out with us.'

This conversation seems to be going in a very strange direction, but I think it's okay, I think that I'm over Nick, that we probably both have regrets but that it's time to move on.

'I know,' I say. 'So am I, but, let's face it, we weren't exactly a match made in heaven.'

There's a silence.

'I mean,' I continue, 'I think you're lovely, and I'd love to have you as my friend, but in hindsight we should probably never have been together.'

'You're probably right,' he sighs. 'And anyway, I couldn't handle a relationship right now.'

'I know,' I laugh. 'That's what you said when you dumped me.'

'I didn't dump you! We just… parted.'

'A bit like the Red Sea?'

'Exactly.'

'And what about you, Nick?' I don't really want to ask this question, I don't really want to know, but I can't help it. 'How's your love life?'

'Terrible.' Thank you, thank you, thank you, God.

'No women, then?'

'Nah. Not since you.'

'You must be getting withdrawal symptoms.'

'I'm fine. I'm being very introverted and doing lots of thinking about love and life and all that stuff.'

'Come up with any conclusions yet?'

'Yes. I've concluded that I'm completely screwed up.'

'So tell me something else I didn't know.'

'Thanks!' Indignant tone.

'Pleasure!' Light and breezy tone.

'So are we friends now?' A cautious tone.

'Of course! I'd love to be friends with you.'

'Does that mean we could get together for a drink sometime?'

'As long as it's not with your disgusting friends.'

Nick laughs. 'No. Just you and me.'

'That would be lovely.'

'Okay. Listen, I'll call you next week and we'll sort something out.'

'Fine. I've gotta go, Nick, there's another call for me.'

'Okay. God, it's so nice to hear your voice, Libby. I've missed you.'

'I've missed you too.'

I ring Jules immediately to tell her that Nick called, but as soon as she picks up the phone I can hear there's something wrong. Her voice is sounding flat, she doesn't sound as bright as she normally does, and I mentally kick myself for not thinking of her first.

'Jules?' I venture. 'Is everything okay?'

I hear a long sigh.

'What's the matter?'

'God, Libby,' she sighs. 'I'm really worried. About Jamie.'

'Jamie? What on earth are you worried about with Jamie?'

'I know this sounds crazy, and I know he works all the time, but the last couple of weeks he's been working late in the office, and last night I called him and there was no reply. When he got home I casually asked him if he went out, but he said no, he'd been in his office all night.'

'So? He'd probably gone to the loo or something.'

'For three hours? And that's not everything. He's been a bit distant lately but I tried to ignore it and when I did ask him if there was something the matter he said his mind was on a case and he was really busy.'

'Jules, you're not telling me you think he's having an affair, are you? You're crazy, Jamie would never do that.'

'I thought I was going mad,' Jules says slowly, 'but suddenly I've started remembering that over the last few weeks the phone's rung a few times and it's been put down when I've answered.'

'So? Probably a wrong number.'

'I know something's wrong, Libby. I can't explain it, it's almost like a sixth sense. I feel him distancing himself, and I'm sure he's met someone else.'

'Jules, you're being ridiculous. I saw you together just the other day and you're still the perfect couple, and he still obviously adores you. Are you sure you're not imagining it? Jamie's hardly the type to have an affair. Jesus, Jules. I don't know what to say. I mean, how could he possibly be having an affair? Are you sure you're not going through an early menopause or something?'

'I don't know. Look, I've got to go. I haven't decided what to do yet but I'll fill you in.'

I put down the phone, wondering whether Jules is going mad, whether Jamie would be unfaithful, trying to imagine what she must feel like. There isn't anything I can do, other than help out with some amateur sleuthing if she asks, but Jules isn't the type to start following Jamie around in sunglasses and a wig. She isn't the type to tap his phone calls or to trick him into revealing the truth.

I would be rifling through his pockets, checking his credit card statements, but Jules, despite her suspicions, won't really want to know. She'll blind herself to it, hoping that it will go away. But Jesus Christ, how could Jamie, Jamie, be having an affair?

Over the next few days Jules tries to change the subject when I ask how things are. 'Fine,' she says guardedly, and I know that there's no point in pushing her to talk about it. That she'll talk about it when she's ready, and that the only thing I can do is be there for her when she decides to open up.

But I'll tell you this. If Jamie is having an affair I'll kill him. Even the thought of him causing Jules pain makes me so angry I want to go storming into his chambers now and kick the living daylights out of him. How could he? How dare he?

I seems as if a weight has suddenly descended on to my shoulders, and, if I feel like this, how in the hell must Jules be feeling?