'm really not that interested,' Jules says, getting up to make another cup of tea.

'But Jules!' I make a face. 'You said he's tall, handsome, sexy and funny. How can you not be interested?'

She turns and faces me. 'Libby, I still love Jamie. I don't know what's going to happen with us, but the one thing I do know is that I don't want anyone to confuse the issue further.'

'But it's only one night, for God's sake. And you don't have to do anything. Anyway, you did give him your number.'

She sighs and runs her fingers through her hair. 'I know,' she moans. 'I didn't know what else to say when he asked. Jesus. You go to a work party expecting to stay for twenty minutes, and some bloody bloke comes along who would have been exactly your type if you weren't married, and… I don't know. I'm not interested in going out on a date with him. I just didn't know what else to say.'

'One date isn't going to hurt you. And if you and Jamie don't get back together, at least you'll know there are other men out there.'

'But I'm not sure I want other men.'

'You did say that, what was his name? Paul?' She nods. 'Paul was the first man you'd met since you'd been married that you'd found attractive.'

'But that doesn't mean I want to sleep with him.'

'Who said anything about sleeping with him?'

'Go out with him, then.'

'Oh, why did he have to bloody phone,' she moans, bringing a fresh pot of tea over to the sofa. 'Why couldn't he have been like all those men you used to meet who'd take your number and never phone?'

'Because he's not a bastard,' I say, smirking. 'And anyway. You never know. You might have a nice time.'

'I've just finished the interview with the Mail, and I was passing so I thought I'd pop in and see if you wanted to have a coffee?'

Amanda, as usual, looks a vision of B-list loveliness, in a hot-pink trouser suit with chunky gold earrings, and a huge pair of Jackie 0 sunglasses, and evidently she's enjoying her new-found fame. Well, fame-ish, because Amanda has been 'stepping out' with one of television's brightest actors thanks to me, and suddenly the papers are taking a huge interest in her.

There's no question of there being any romance, because once the actor in question is away from the cameras he's as camp as Amanda's suit, but naturally he's spent his whole life in the closet, and the news that he's gay wouldn't exactly help his status as a heartthrob.

So I organized that Amanda should accompany him to a film premiere, and the cameras flashed away, and Amanda even stopped to tell a journalist that they had no comment to make on their relationship, which was as good as telling them they were shagging, and it made page three the next day in several of the tabloids.

And she, of course, is over the moon. They've now been written about as TV's most glamorous couple, her haircut has been analysed over and over again by the women's pages, and his macho masculine image has been more than confirmed in the public eye.

The Telegraph even phoned me last week and asked if they could do a feature on Amanda, which, as far as she's concerned, is the mark of true fame, and now I really do seem to have become her best friend.

I have to speak to her every day because the calls requesting interviews, photo-shoots, soundbites, have been coming in thick and fast, and I really am starting to like her more, even though I know our friendship is a transient one, and I still have to slightly watch my guard.

'I'm so busy setting up your interviews,' I laugh, extending my cheek for her to air kiss. 'I'm not sure.'

'Amanda! Darling!' Joe Cooper walks out of his office and gives Amanda a huge kiss. 'What do you think of all the coverage our Libby is getting for you?'

'It's wonderful!' she gushes. 'You're doing the most amazing job. I came in to see if Libby would go for a coffee with me.' She tells Joe that the Telegraph interview went fantastically, and Joe says of course I can go, so off we trot, Amanda still in her sunglasses, despite the weather being distinctly overcast.

And on our way to the Italian caff round the corner, which is the only place around here, a woman stops dead in her tracks when she sees us. She walks over and taps Amanda on the arm.

'Excuse me?' she says. 'But aren't you Amanda Baker?'

Amanda nods graciously.

'Oh, I love you on TV. I watch you every morning.'

'Why thank you,' says Amanda, fishing around in her bag. 'Would you like a signed picture?' And while I look on in amazement Amanda draws out a large glossy black and white photograph of herself as the woman stares in delight.

'To?' says Amanda, pausing regally as she looks at the woman.

'Jackie,' she says. 'Oh, I can't wait to tell my friends I've met you, and you're much more beautiful in the flesh.'

'Thank you,' says Amanda, scribbling away as the woman thanks her profusely and scuttles off.

'Jesus,' I say. 'Does that happen a lot?'

'All the time,' she sighs. 'It drives me mad.'

But of course it doesn't drive her mad. She loves every minute of it. This is exactly what she's been waiting for, and she knows that, now she's got it, the mark of true stardom is to complain about it.

We order cappuccinos at the bar and sit down by the window, and Amanda finally takes her sunglasses off, and checks the room just to see if anyone's looking at her, but of course the Italian waiters are here all day, and don't have a chance to watch breakfast television.

'So,' she says, running her fingers through her perfectly coiffed hair. 'How are you?'

'Really well,' I say. 'Actually, I'm extremely well.'

'Oh? How are things going with Mr McMahon?'

And I find myself telling her that he met my parents, and that everything's almost perfect, and that I think I may well have found myself Mr Right.

'You'd better hang on to him,' she says, when I've finished. 'Because there are plenty of women who'd love to get their hands on Ed McMahon.'

She doesn't say she's one of those women, but then I suppose she doesn't have to. It's written all over her face, and the fact that she would so obviously love to have a shot at him makes me even more determined to make this work. To be Mrs Ed McMahon.

Oh? Did you think I might keep my name? Don't be ridiculous. There's no cachet in ringing up Nobu to book a table under the name Libby Mason, but there's a hell of a lot of cachet in booking a table as Ed McMahon's wife. It's like those tests they do every few months on news magazine shows. Mr and Mrs Joe Bloggs ring up the ten top restaurants in town and ask for a table for two that night, only to be told they're fully booked for the next three months. And then one of the researchers rings up, saying that Elizabeth Hurley and Hugh Grant are flying in, and they know it's short notice but could these same restaurants possibly squeeze them in, and naturally the restaurants fall over themselves to accommodate them, and say of course, whatever time would suit them.

Not that I'm suggesting that Ed McMahon is in the same league as Elizabeth and Hugh, but anyone worth their salt ought to know who he is. And Jules did ask me whether I'd feel the same way if he were, say, Ed McMahon, welder, but I got out of that one by saying that what he does is part and parcel of who he is, so I honestly couldn't answer that one.

Although I think you know what the answer is.

And when I get back to the office there's a message from Jules and a message from my mother. I ring Mum first, who can hardly contain her excitement, and spends twenty minutes telling me how wonderful he is, and how he's the best catch I'll ever have, and how she can see he adores me, and thank God she doesn't mention the cooking.

Just as I'm about to pick up the phone to ring the Telegraph to check they're happy with the interview and sort out the photo-shoot, my phone rings again (trust me, the life of a PR is all about phone calls, personal or otherwise), and it's my father.

'What's wrong, Dad?' My father never, ever calls me. In fact, it took me a while to recognize his voice, so rarely does he actually speak.

'I just thought I'd phone to thank you for last night.'

'Oh! Well, Mum already phoned. Did you enjoy it?'

'Yes. It was very nice. Are you happy with him, Libby?'

What is this? First my father phones me at work, and then he asks me about the state of my relationship. I need to get to the bottom of this.

'Why, Dad?'

'I know that your mother's over the moon because he's obviously very wealthy and very keen on you, but I just wondered whether you were very serious.'

'You didn't like him, did you, Dad?' My heart sinks.

'Do you want me to be honest?'

'Yes.' No.

'I think he's obviously smitten with you. In material terms he could probably give you everything you needed. But…' And he stops.

'Go on, Dad.'

'Well, it's just that I'm not entirely sure he's for you.'

'Why not?'

He sighs. 'Nothing that I can exactly put my finger on, but I wanted to make sure you were happy, because I want what's best for you.'

'And you don't think he is?' I have a feeling my dad wants to say more, but he doesn't, and I don't push him.

'If you're happy, Libby, then I'm happy.'

'I'm happy, Dad. Honestly.'

'Good. All right, darling, that's all. We'll see you on Sunday?'

'See you then. Bye, Dad.'

'Bye.'

What was all that about? Well, I knew my dad didn't feel comfortable last night, and I knew that he was falling asleep during all Ed's stories, and I'll even go so far as to admit that even I find Ed boring sometimes, but he does have other redeeming qualities, and nobody can keep you amused all the time. Can they?

I've already spoken to Jules twice today, but I want to know what she thinks of this strange conversation with my dad, plus she'd better have returned Paul's call, so I ring her mobile because I know she's on her way to a client.

'My Dad hates him.'

'You're joking!' she gasps. 'Did he say that?'

'Well, no. Not exactly. But he didn't have to.' And I tell her what he did say.

'Hmm. Could just be parental concern. I mean, Ed is quite a lot older than your other boyfriends, so maybe he's just worried about you.'

'What's Ed being older got to do with anything?'

'Okay. Point taken. I'd tell you what I thought of Ed, and you know I'd be entirely honest. In fact, I've just had a brilliant idea. You know that guy Paul? Why don't the four of us go out for dinner? I couldn't face seeing him on my own, it's too like a date, but I could cope if you were there too, and then I could suss out Ed as well.'

'Fantastic!' I say, and it is, even though it will feel completely weird without Jamie, but at least this way Jules will definitely see this guy again. I'm trying to fight Jamie's corner, but I don't think there's any harm in lining up a reserve, just in case. 'When can you make it?'

'Friday night?'

'Perfect.'

'Libby? Delivery again for you.' It's Jo on the internal phone.

'Don't tell me yet more flowers.'

'Nah. This one's more mysterious. Come and see.'

I go to reception, where there's a large plastic Gucci carrier bag, and my heart, I swear, misses a beat, because we don't handle Gucci's PR (chance would be a fine bloody thing), so why is there a bag from Gucci with my name on it?

Jo rubs her hands together squealing, 'Open it, open it,' so I do, but first I pull out the card and read out loud: 'To my darling Libby, for making such an effort last night. I love you. Ed.'

'Oh my God,' Jo squeals. 'What's in the bloody bag?'

I slowly tear off the tissue paper, and open a drawstring fabric bag with Gucci printed on it, and pull out a chocolate-brown leather Gucci bag. The one with bamboo handles. The one I've always wanted.

'You. Are. So. Fucking. Lucky,' says Jo.

'You've got one of these!' I say, stroking the leather that's as soft as butter.

'Yeah, but I had to pay for it. £310.'

'You're joking!' Now it's my turn to squeal.

'I can't believe your boyfriend bought you a Gucci bag!'

'Jesus Christ. Neither can I!'

Naturally, I have to phone Jules again, and, although she is excited, there's something about her voice, something slightly reserved, that makes me question her until she tells me what she's really thinking.

'I'm worried that it's almost like he's buying you.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' I snort, still stroking my gorgeous new acquisition. 'Three hundred quid for him is like three quid for the rest of us.'

'Still,' she says. 'Lavishing presents on you would make it very difficult for you to leave.'

'But I'm not going to leave,' and for the first time I'm beginning to get slightly pissed off with Jules, which never, ever happens.

'God, I'm sorry,' she says. 'I'm being a complete killjoy. It's fantastic and I'm jealous, that's all.'

'It is gorgeous,' I say, smiling. 'You really will be jealous when you see it.'

'It's the one in Tatler this month, isn't it? The one that all the It Girls are supposed to have.'

'Yup. That's the one.'

'You lucky cow. 'Course I'm jealous, and I can't wait to meet him on Friday.'

'Good. And I can't wait to meet Paul. Oh, and just in case you don't recognize me I'll be the one with the Gucci bag.'

We get to Sartoria first, having found a parking space almost immediately, which is a bit of a miracle in the West End, and I order a Kir, which is what I've taken to ordering these days because it fits my new image as the smart, sophisticated partner of Ed McMahon.

And in case you're wondering, I'm wearing a brown leather skirt that I picked up yesterday, because, much as I love my trousers, Ed has now grudgingly admitted that he completely adores women in skirts, so it's the least I can do to please him, and it does happen to look rather spectacular with my new Gucci bag. (Okay, okay, I'll stop now, I just had to mention it one more time.)

Ed sits next to me and holds my hand under the table, and every few minutes he kisses me on the lips, which, nice as it is to be so adored, is beginning to irritate me ever so slightly. I did try and extract my hand, but then he got that sad puppy-dog look on his face again, and I felt guilty, so I placed my hand back in his and gave him a reassuring squeeze.

And then Jules and Paul arrive (it sounds so wrong, Jules and Paul), and Ed stands up to shake their hands and say how lovely it is to see Jules again, while Paul stands there awkwardly waiting to be introduced to me.

Paul seems… he seems nice, which I know is pretty nondescript, but, despite being everything that Jules described, he's just not Jamie, and I really don't know whether I could get used to this man.

We sit and make small talk about how wonderful the restaurant is, and how we've all heard how marvellous the food is, and when the waiter comes to take our order Ed can't decide and he asks me to choose for him, which I do and which I love — this gesture of trust and intimacy.

And Ed is at his most charming, asking lots of questions, not, thank God, telling his bloody investment banking stories, and I'm praying and praying that Jules loves him.

I do get slightly exasperated when most of Ed's hors d'oeuvre ends up on his moustache, because this happened the other night as well, and I had to nudge him while I thought my parents weren't looking and gesture to wipe the food off. Tonight I'm feeling more confident, and I want Jules to see how close we are, so I pick up my napkin, raise my eyes to the ceiling and wipe the food off, and while Ed looks a bit sheepish, he's also delighted that I'm looking after him so well.

There is a moment when Jules is talking about someone she works with who's driving her mad by constantly changing her mind, and whom she describes as 'mercurial'.

'Umm, excuse me?' Ed interrupts her.

'Yes?' She stops in mid-flow.

'I don't think "mercurial" is the word you mean.'

Jules stopped dead in her tracks. 'Umm. I think it is,' she says slowly.

'I don't think it is. What did you mean?'

Jules looks at him as if he's mad, which I have to say, I think he is rather, because even I'm wary of challenging Jules when she's on a roll.

'Flighty. Constantly changing,' she says. 'A person who suffers from mood swings.'

'As far as I'm aware, mercurial means of mercury, i.e. liquid, flowing.'

'I think you'll find it can also mean constantly changing,' she says, and from the tone of her voice I pray that Ed backs down.

'Please don't think me rude, but I think you'll find The Oxford English Dictionary defines it as "of or containing mercury",' Ed persists, while I want to die with embarrassment.

'Actually,' says Paul, jumping in to save the day, 'I think you'll find you're both right. As far as I can remember, mercurial means both of or containing mercury, and volatile.'

'And Paul's a surgeon,' I say, trying to break the ice, 'therefore frighteningly clever, so I think we'll all have to agree with him.'

Thank God, it does break the ice somewhat, but from thereon in the atmosphere is slightly less convivial than it has been, and every now and then I see Jules shooting him daggers when she thinks neither of us is looking.

'Well, I must say,' Ed exclaims as we're about to order coffee, evidently having completely missed the implication of his near-argument with Jules. 'It's lovely to meet Libby's closest friend.'

'Thank you,' says Jules. 'And it's lovely to meet you.' This bit was said through gritted teeth. 'Has Libby met your closest friends?'

And that's when I realize that apart from Sarah and Charlie and the people at the party in the country, not only have I not met any of Ed's friends, I haven't even heard about any. Everyone he talks about seems to be a colleague through work, and isn't this a bit strange? I look at Ed to see what he says.

'Ha, ha,' he laughs. Umm, was there a joke? 'I don't really have many friends.'

'I can't think why not,' mutters Jules, as I kick her under the table. 'But you must have a few,' she pushes, in a light tone of voice.

'Oh, yes. Yes. Charlie and Sarah of course. Libby's met them. And, umm. Well. I suppose I work so hard I haven't really had time to make that many friends.'

I can see that Ed's slightly flummoxed, so I interject with: 'Charlie and Sarah were lovely. I told you all about them, remember?'

Jules nods. 'I just wondered what you did socially before you met Libby.'

'I'm not a hugely social creature, ha ha,' says Ed. 'I'm either in the office or at home.'

'You must be delighted you've met Libby, then,' says Paul with a smile.

'Oh, I am,' he says, beaming at me with relief at being let off the hook. 'I am.' And he leans over and kisses me on the lips.

'I'm just going to the ladies' room. Jules?'

'I'll come,' she says, putting her napkin on the chair as we stand up and walk down to the loo.

'Well? What d'you think?' The words are out of her mouth before the door is even shut.

'He's lovely,' I say. 'A really nice guy.'

'I know,' she sighs, reapplying some lipstick. 'But it's not the same, is it?'

'Well, no. I suppose it's not.'

'Oh Gawd,' she says. 'What am I going to do?'

'Are you planning on doing anything?' I look at her in amazement.

'I don't want to,' she says. 'But, and I know this sounds weird, but I kind of feel that if I were to be unfaithful as well, then we'd be equal, and then I could forgive him.'

'Are you sure that's what you want to do?'

'No. I don't really want to do it. But I think it's the only way. Anyway, enough about me. Ed. He obviously adores you.'

'I know that! But what do you think of him?'

'Do you want me to be completely honest?'

Suddenly I'm not so sure, because I don't want to fall out with Jules, not with my best friend, but I know it's not going to be good news, and I don't think I could stand to argue with her.

I shrug.

'Look,' she says, calming down. 'We haven't exactly got off to a great start. I didn't appreciate that whole mercurial business, so right at this moment I can't think of a great many positive things to say, but I can see that he's treating you incredibly well, and for that I'm grateful.'

'You really don't like him?'

'I don't know. I'd need to spend more time with him. But the main thing is that you're happy.'

'You will like him, you know,' I say. 'He's really a sweetheart once you get past all the pompous shit.'

'You mean you can get past the pompous shit?'

'Oh, Jules!' I give her a hug. 'Please be happy for me. He's treating me better than anyone I've ever met.'

'That's what I'm scared of,' she says into my shoulder. 'I'm just scared that you've fallen for the way he's treating you, rather than for the man himself.'

We disengage and it's my turn to reapply some lipstick. 'I don't think that's the case,' I say, painting on my top lip. 'I really don't.'

'Okay,' she says, smiling at me in the mirror. 'If you say so, then I believe you.'

'Did you like them?'

'Yes,' says Ed slowly, on the way back to his place.

'Did you like Jules?'

'She's certainly feisty,' he says.

'You didn't like her, did you?'

'Of course I did,' he says, reaching over to give me a kiss as we stop at a red light. 'She's your best friend, so I have to like her.'

I'm not sure that's entirely what I wanted to hear, plus I don't really believe him, but I'm sure they'll both get over it. I'm sure everything will be fine. It has to be.

We park the car and get out, and just as we're walking to the front door Ed suddenly turns and grabs me, enveloping me in a huge hug.

'I was going to wait,' he says, 'and do this properly. But I think I should probably ask you now. Will you marry me?'

These are the words I've waited my whole life to hear, so why isn't my heart soaring into the night sky? Why am I not dancing up the terrace with joy? Why do I feel so completely and utterly normal?

'Okay,' I say eventually, watching Ed's expression turn from worried into rapturous.

'You will?'

'I will'

'You'll be my wife?'

'Yes.'

'Oh goodness. I think we need to celebrate this with champagne.'

So we go inside and as I sit on the sofa watching Ed open the champagne I wonder why this feels like the biggest anti-climax of my life. And even when he brings me the glass and sits next to me to cuddle me, I still don't feel ecstatically happy, but then maybe no one feels like this? Maybe the whole thing is a bit like a Hollywood film, the passionate love thing, the feeling of ecstasy when you're proposed to? Maybe none of it really exists, and, even if it did, this feeling of being grounded is so much safer, in some ways more real, and I definitely prefer being the loved rather than the lover, I'm much more in control.

And after we've celebrated for a while I pick up the phone and wake up my parents to tell them the good news.

My mother screams. Literally. Screams.

'She's getting married,' she then shrieks at my father. 'Oh, Libby, I don't know what to say I'm so excited and I can't believe it you're getting married and oh my good Lord I never thought I'd see the day and you're marrying Ed McMahon and he's so eligible and you've got him…' I swear I'm not making this up, she doesn't take a breath.

Nor does she add, 'Wait until I tell the neighbours,' but I know that's what she's thinking.

And Dad comes on the phone and just says,' Congratulations, darling. I'm very happy for you,' and then I pass the phone to Ed and I can hear my mother shrieking delight at Ed, and finally we put the phone down and I think about calling Jules, because, after my parents, she should be the first person in the world to know, but somehow I'm not so sure I want to tell her when I'm with Ed, I think I'd rather tell her when I'm on my own, so I leave that call until tomorrow morning and we go to bed.