t's been a month, and I really feel fine now. I've rediscovered my career, and no one at work can believe quite how hard I've been working, or quite how much I've achieved, but Jesus, isn't that the best way of getting over being single again?

And okay, so my evenings are slightly harder. Not that I want to be with Ed, it's just that I find myself at a loss for things to do, although my friends have been fantastic, and everyone's been inviting me to everything, and the best thing about going out with my friends again is that I know there's absolutely no possibility of me bumping into Ed. Ever.

Because now that I'm single again I've realized that I was living a total fantasy with Ed. I was wearing clothes I never thought I'd wear, going to places I never thought I'd go, and generally behaving in a way that absolutely, one hundred per cent, was not me. You see, although I always thought that was the lifestyle I wanted, now that I've had a taste I know that I never again want to pretend to be something I'm not.

It is, however, a bit weird having to readjust to being single. Having to plan my diary meticulously so I'm not sitting at home every night eating takeaways, but I'd much rather be making the effort than be with Ed.

Although I'm still slightly thrown when Amanda rings me at work one day and out of the blue asks me if I'd mind if she went out with Ed.

'No, no,' I say, in a falsely enthusiastic voice. 'That's fine.'

'Are you sure you don't mind?' she says, and I know that, even if I did, it wouldn't make a blind bit of difference to her. They're probably perfectly suited, and Amanda's a far better social climber than I'll ever be, although my social aspirations seem to have gone down a peg or five.

'I'm delighted,' I say, wondering whether they've already gone out, but I don't have to wonder very long, because later that afternoon Jo runs in brandishing the Daily Express and the late edition of the Standard.

'Okay,' she says, perching her long legs on the edge of my desk. 'Take a deep breath. Are you ready?'

I nod, and Jo opens the Express first and places it on my desk in front of me, and there, in Features, is a piece on London's new It couples. And taking pride of place with a large colour photograph are Amanda Baker and Ed McMahon. The picture is obviously a paparazzi, and I note with interest how Amanda has perfected the pissed-off look and the pose of holding her hand in front of her face to pretend she doesn't want to be photographed.

'Jesus,' I gasp. 'That was quick work.'

'Wait,' laughs Jo. 'It gets better,' and with that she flings the Standard on top of the Express and opens it to the front page of the Homes and Property section, and in the Homes Gossip section is another picture of Amanda.

'Breakfast Break presenter Amanda Baker,' Jo reads out loud, 'is selling her interior designed one-bedroom flat in Primrose Hill, where near neighbours include Liam Gallagher and Patsy Kensit, and Harry Enfield. The estate agent has revealed she is moving to Hanover Terrace to be with her new love, Ed McMahon The flat has a picturesque roof terrace, and a beautifully presented aspect, and is now on the market at £185,000 through agents blah blah blah.' Jo stops and checks to see how I'm taking it.

'Fucking hell,' I splutter. 'When the fuck did all this happen?'

Jo shrugs. 'Dunno, but thank God you got out of it when you did. I mean, please. Look at that picture of Ed. Look at that tache. How could you?' And I examine the picture in the Express again and start to laugh. 'I know' I shrug my shoulders. 'What the hell was I thinking?'

Joe Cooper comes out of his office and sees us laughing, and he walks over to see what all the fuss is about.

'Are you okay with this?' he says, looking at me intently. 'If there's any problem I'll put someone else on her account.'

'No,' I laugh. 'I'm fine. I'm just bloody relieved it's not me in there.'

'What are you doing on Saturday night?' Sal sounds excited.

'Noth-ing,' I say slowly, always wary of committing myself before I know what I'm committing myself to. 'Why?'

'We're having a party and you must come. Paul and I were talking the other night about how nobody has house parties any more, in fact nobody even has parties.'

'You're right, weird isn't it.'

'Yup, so we've decided to have one. The biggest, loudest, fuck-off party you've ever been to.'

I can already feel my own excitement rising at the prospect of a proper party, something to dress up for, something to look forward to.

'Are you having it in your place?' I'm picturing Sal's house in Clapham, her double reception room, the french doors opening on to a large garden.

'Yup, of course. Paul spent last weekend building a barbecue, and we're going to have a bar with Sea Breezes and Martinis, and I've got to go out this afternoon and buy a load of fairy lights to string up in the trees.'

I squeal with excitement. 'Who's coming? Who's coming?'

'Everyone!' she shrieks. 'No, but wait. I haven't finished. Paul's got a friend who's a DJ, and he's coming and bringing his recordy deck thingy to do all the music properly.'

'Not techno rubbish?'

'Nah, for us old things? Nope, he says it's serious funk with a strong seventies flavour.'

'Excellent, my favourite. What time will it start?'

'We thought around eight, and most people probably won't turn up until later, but I definitely want the hard core of close friends there early. Seriously, Libby, there'll be so much food and drink, and so many people, we think we're on to a bit of a winner.'

'How many people?'

'We've got about eighty on the list, but everyone wants to bring friends because they're all saying the same thing, that no one has parties any more.'

'Sal, I cannot even begin to tell you how excited I am.' And it's true. I am.

On Saturday afternoon I do something I haven't done for ages: I start getting ready for the party at three in the afternoon, and, even though it brings back shades of my teenage years, I'm loving every minute of it.

I wash my hair in the shower, then smear a hot wax treatment all over it, cover it in a hot towel and spend the next hour chatting to Jules while it does its stuff.

I use an apricot facial scrub, then three different face packs, all of which I leave on for twenty minutes, and by the time I've finished my face is so tight and shiny you can almost see your reflection in it.

I dash out to the newsagent's and return with an armful of glossy magazines, because, chameleon woman that Jules so rightly once said I am, I haven't yet decided who I'm going to be tonight. Am I going to be sophisticated, trendy, funky or aloof? Do I slick back my hair, wear it in a spiky pony-tail, or have it loose and tousled around my shoulders? Should I stagger in heels, glide in pumps, or stomp in trainers?

Flicking through the magazines, I have a wild impulse to pluck my eyebrows into perfect, sardonic arches, so, grabbing the tweezers, I do just that, marvelling at the difference it makes to my face, and wondering what else I can do to achieve model perfection.

At last, at precisely half past seven, I'm done. I survey myself in the mirror, in my floaty chiffon floor-length dress covered in a dusky flower print, demure until I walk, when the front slit sweeps aside revealing my newly tanned legs (I bought the fake stuff this morning and much to my amazement it left me with smooth brown legs, and no orange stripes). Flat strappy sandals complete the look, and I scoop my hair up into a messy pony-tail, figuring I can always loosen it later, should I find someone to loosen it for.

I'm tempted to drive, but I'm planning to really let my hair down this evening (excuse the pun), and call a minicab instead. I make him stop outside the off-licence so I can run in and get beer. I would normally have brought wine, but Sal warned me off, saying they were stuffing three huge dustbins with ice, and beer would be more appropriate.

There are only a handful of other people there when I arrive, and no one I recognize, but there's a buzz of excitement in the air already, and we all grin at each other and shake hands, chattering about how wonderful the weather is, and what a beautiful evening to have a party.

And the garden looks spectacular. Paul waves to me from behind the barbecue, the coals still jet-black, and behind him are makeshift wooden shelves, lined with what I can only assume must be Jello shots.

The trees surrounding the garden are all covered with tiny white fairy lights, but, as Sal says, as she shows me what they've done, we won't get the full effect until later. I say hi to Jools, the DJ, a scarily trendy and rather gorgeous bloke who's testing his system, too caught up in his music to notice the guests, other than to wave hello.

'I can't believe what you've done,' I say, after Sal and I have knocked back a delicious lime Jello shot together. 'This is amazing.'

'Do you think everyone will turn up?' She shoots me a worried glance before looking around the garden. 'I mean, hardly anyone's here yet.'

'Don't worry.' I check my watch. 'It's only 8.45. People will start rolling in any minute now.'

And sure enough, as if by magic, people do start arriving, and within an hour the garden is heaving, literally heaving, and the nicest thing about it is that, even though I don't know more than a handful of people, everyone feels like my closest friend, and I'm having a whale of a time dancing with some guy called Dave who isn't really my type but who's a bloody good dancer, and I know that I haven't had this much fun in ages.

And then Sal runs in and switches on the lights, and Paul moves around the garden, lighting the torches that have been strategically placed in the flower beds around the edge, and the whole night seems to take on a magical quality, and it does feel like the kind of night when anything could happen.

Soon there are crowds of people dancing, and although we're outside there's no breeze, and it's so hot I can feel beads of perspiration dotted on my forehead, and eventually I shout to Dave that I'm going to get a drink, and he nods, grins, and turns to dance with the girl behind him.

The only drink to quench my thirst right now is good old tap water, so I push through the party-goers until I'm in Sal's tiny kitchen, and, leaning panting against the sink, I reach for a glass and gulp it down in about two seconds.

'John Travolta has nothing on you.' I jump and with my hand on my heart I turn to see Nick lounging in the doorway with a big grin on his face.

'I hope you're not still in insulting mode,' I say suspiciously.

'No!' He looks aghast. 'I was serious. I never realized you were such a good dancer.'

I shrug, secretly flattered. 'How long have you been here?'

'Not long. We got here about fifteen minutes ago. Just in time to see those hips move.'

I laugh self-consciously before asking, 'We?' And then I notice her. Tall, skinny, cropped dark hair in that perfect gamine cut that you can only have when you are tremendously beautiful and live in Notting Hill, and of course she is tremendously beautiful, and I hate her. Instantly. Not that I'm jealous, in fact I'm happy that Nick has found someone. Well, okay. Maybe happy would be a bit of an over-exaggeration, and why does she have to be so bloody beautiful?

'Hi,' she smiles, and fuck. Her teeth are perfect. If I didn't know better I'd think she stepped straight out of an American advert for toothpaste. 'I'm Cat.' Great. This gets better. I shake her hand warily, and trying to be polite ask, 'Is that your real name?'

'No.' She shakes her head and laughs. 'My real name's Sophie, but everyone used to tell me I looked like a cat at school and the name stuck.' As I take in her cat-like almond-shaped eyes, I note that her voice is immaculately polished, that lazy insouciant tone that immediately marks her out as a member of the upper classes. Or, at the very least, upper middle. I don't feel good enough, and I can't believe a friend of Nick is making me feel inadequate. Not that she's unfriendly, but she's so gorgeous I feel like a dumpy fraud, and I wish, instantly, that I had worn something more like her, a plain vest top with baggy combat trousers and trainers.

Nick smiles at me, waiting to see what I'll say next, probably proud as punch that he can show off his new girlfriend and she can be that gorgeous. Well, fuck you, I think, smiling at him graciously as I say, 'I mustn't leave Dave alone for too long,' and with that I sweep past them, ignoring his odd look at me, and go back into the garden.

Dave's still dancing with the other girl, and I tap him on the shoulder and grin at him as he turns, holds my hips, and moves his body perfectly in tune with mine. Over his shoulder I see Nick and Cat walk into the garden, and I throw my head back with laughter to prove I'm having a fantastic time, because Nick's looking at me and quite frankly he can go screw himself. Or Cat. Which he probably will be doing later.

Fuck.

Why does this bother me so much? Why do I care? After all, I was the one who turned him down. This time. And I really, really don't want a relationship right now, and even if I did the last person I'd be interested in would be Nick. So why can't I take my eyes off the two of them, giggling together in the corner? Why do I feel a stab of jealousy when I remember how he used to do that with me? Why is he making her laugh and not me?

I resolve that there's only one solution to this dilemma, and that is to get drunk. Very, very drunk. I down my next Sea Breeze in one, much to Paul's astonishment, and then instantly start on another one. That's it. Much better.

Nick who?

I lose track of time, but soon the world suddenly becomes slightly hazy, and I know that I've probably had enough. More, and I'd run the risk of getting into bed only to have an attack of the deadly bedspins or, worse, throw up at the party. This is just perfect: hazy, friendly, just enough to make me happy. Who cares. I've got no problems other than who to dance with next.

Nick who?

Sal comes up and grabs me. 'Did you see her?'

'See who?'

'Cat?'

I nod.

'She's gorgeous, isn't she? Who would have thought it.'

'Yeah, who would have bloody thought it,' and I give Sal a drunken kiss on the cheek and go staggering off to the barbecue, not that I'm hungry, it's just that drinking on an empty stomach is not exactly clever, and I know that if I don't have something to eat, anything, I really won't be very well at all.

I tear at a chicken kebab, not really tasting it, and, as I throw the stick merrily over my shoulder, I see Nick standing by himself on the other side of the garden, and when I catch his eye he starts walking over to me, so I head off in the other direction and make myself very busy flirting with a group of men I've never seen before, who seem more than happy to make me feel welcome.

Ha! That will show him. Nick has skulked off, presumably to find his precious Cat.

The party's in full throttle at two in the morning, despite the neighbours' complaints, but gradually people have started disappearing, and I haven't seen Nick for ages and I'm slightly drunk and very tired and actually I'm now wondering how I'm going to get home.

I go inside, to the living room at the front of the house, which is pitch black and empty, and, bumping into the coffee table en route, I finally make it to the sofa and slump down.

'Fuck!'

'Fuck!' I jump back up to hear rustling, then footsteps, then the light's switched on.

'Libby? What are you doing?'

'What am I doing? What the hell are you doing?' I'm looking at Nick suspiciously as he starts to laugh, and it sobers me up instantly.

'I was just lying down for a bit. In the dark. I know you still have a soft spot for me but did you really have to leap on top of me to prove it?'

'I didn't,' I grumble, sitting down again. 'I didn't know you were there. Anyway. Where's Cat?'

'Gone. She's off to some other party.'

'Why didn't you go too?'

'Her friends are far too Notting Hill for me. You know, they're all those bloody awful Trustafarians and I can't stand them.'

I look at him strangely. 'So how do you… I mean, do you find it difficult… well…'

Now it's Nick's turn to look at me strangely. 'What? What are you talking about? Libby, you're pissed.'

'No, no.' I shake my head to clear it. 'I mean, if you don't like her friends, well, it's just that I can't see her getting on with yours, you know, Moose and that lot, and, well…' I stumble into silence.

'Libby, what the fuck are you on about, all this friends stuff? Cat's always had bloody awful friends. Apart from the old ones, that is. Some of her friends at school were completely gorgeous when they were fourteen.'

I still don't understand, and then it slowly dawns on me. 'Cat's not your…'

'Sister? Yes. Why? What did you think?' And then he sees exactly what I thought and he roars with laughter. 'God, Libby. You are fantastic. Cat? My girlfriend?' and he snorts with laughter again.

'Well, how was I to know?' I go on the defensive because what else can I do?

'I don't know,' Nick splutters, wiping the tears from his eyes. 'I just, well. Even if she wasn't my sister she wouldn't be my type.'

'No?' I resist the urge to ask him what would be his type.

'No. Look, how are you getting home? You're not driving, are you?'

'No.'

'Thank Christ for that. If you get a cab I'll come with you to check you get home okay, then I'll take it on home.'

'Okay.' Actually, with a bit of a shock I realize that I'm not sure it is okay. I'm not sure that I want him to go back to his home, but maybe I'm just drunk.

Nick calls a cab, and when it arrives we hug Sal and Paul goodbye and stumble into the back seat, and I pretend to look out the window for a bit, but the only thing I'm concentrating on is keeping my breathing as normal as possible, because the fact that it's so dark in here, so quiet, and that there is a gorgeous, sexy man sitting inches away from me, is making it very, very difficult to pretend that the only thing on my mind right now is friendship.

'Nearly there,' he says, as the cab turns from Holland Park into Ladbroke Grove, and I smile and lean my forehead against the window, and wonder how I can prolong this evening, how I can make him stay, without putting myself on the line by actually asking him.

And then we're outside my house, and we just sit and look at one another as the cab driver taps his fingers impatiently on the wheel.

'Shit,' Nick says suddenly, slapping his palm on his forehead. 'I knew there was something I forgot to tell you.'

'What?'

'It's a long story.'

The cab driver, who's listening, sighs, and I say, 'Do you want to come in? You can always call another cab.'

'Great!' he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling some money out. 'I'll get this,' and he follows me inside the door.

Nick closes the front door behind me, and stands in front of the light switch, so as I fumble to turn on the lights I don't feel anything. Except Nick's hand. He grabs my wrist and doesn't say anything, and we stand in the darkness, just listening to the sound of one another's breathing and is it my imagination or does the breathing become heavier, slower?

And then Nick takes my hand, and possibly the darkness makes it feel like it's happening in slow motion, and he places it on his cheek, and I can't help myself, I start stroking his cheek, and then I'm tracing his lips, unable to see anything, but knowing his face so well from memory, and then his lips are open and he's gently sucking my finger, fingers, into his mouth.

I gasp, and Nick pulls me very gently towards him, and our mouths find one another's in the darkness and Nick leans back against the wall, holding me tightly, kissing me slowly, sensually, until I think my legs are going to give way.

And then very gently he moves around and, holding one arm out to guide him, falls slowly on to the sofa, pulling me with him, and within seconds my dress is around my waist, and I am moaning softly as he gently teases me with his tongue.

And the only thing that's going through my mind is how did I do without this for so long, how could I have ever settled for anything less?

Nick's hand moves up my thigh, stroking, gliding, as I groan into his neck and softly bite the skin there, and I reach down for his belt buckle and listen as his belt clicks undone, and I unzip the zipper of his trousers and stroke the length of his hard-on, and he inhales sharply before kissing me again.

We move to the bedroom, and we make slow, languorous, passionate love, and as he enters me, just at that moment before he starts moving inside me, three words enter my head: I've come home. It's difficult to explain, but there is something so familiar, so comfortable, so right about this moment, it suddenly feels like I am exactly where I should be, at exactly the right time, with exactly the right person.

I'm far too busy losing myself in the moment to dwell on this any further, and after we have made love, after we have murmured to each other and are lying in bed, side by side, with Nick's arm around my shoulders, gently stroking my hair, I remember he had said he had something to tell me.

I lean over and kiss him gently on the nose. 'So what was it you had to tell me, then?' I whisper.

Nick opens his eyes. 'Actually, there are two things.'

'And they are?'

Nick pulls his arm out from under me and sits up in bed, turning to look at me as he takes my hand. 'Libby,' he says seriously, while I start to get worried. 'I know you're probably not ready to hear this, but the thing is, well…' He stops.

'Yes?' I prompt, not having a clue what he is going to say.

'Well, the thing is that I think I might be in love with you…' My mouth falls open, and he gulps before continuing. 'I'm not entirely sure because I don't think I've ever been in love before and it's a bit of a new feeling for me, but it's just that I haven't been able to stop thinking about you, and I don't know whether it was just the timing last time, that I wasn't ready, but now I think I am, and you may not even want me, but I just had to say something, because every morning when I wake up you're the first thing on my mind, and every night before I go to sleep you're the last person I think of, and I have no idea what you are going to say but I wanted you to know.'

And I sit there, my heart racing at hearing these words, at hearing them from Nick, at seeing the expression in his eyes which are glistening with emotion, and I know he means it. I know that he is in love with me, and not the way that Ed loved me, not for my potential, or because I would make a good wife, or for any of those other superficial reasons, but for me. He loves me for who I am.

And suddenly I realize that although I've never thought about being in love with Nick before, all the right ingredients are there. I fancy him. I like him. He's my friend. He makes me laugh. I love being with him. And I start to feel all sort of warm and glowy, and screw the other stuff. Screw the stuff about him having no money, and living in a bedsit, and not being what I thought I wanted. I'm just going to go with this and see where it ends up. I mean, no one says I have to marry the guy, for God's sake.

And anyway. I no longer think that marriage is the be-all and end-all. Not by a long shot. Not after Jules and Jamie, and as she put it the other day. 'It's a long hard struggle, but I think we'll get there.' I'm not sure I'm ready for that struggle. Not yet.

'Nick,' I say, leaning down to kiss him. 'No one's ever said that to me before. If I'm being really honest, I don't know how I feel about you yet, I think it's still a little early for me to talk about love, but I know that I do love being with you, and I'd like to give it a shot. Just being together, I mean, and seeing where it goes.'

Relief spreads over his face.

'So,' I say curiously, after we've snuggled up and kissed for a few minutes. 'What was the other thing?'

'Other thing?'

'You said you had two things to tell me.'

'Oh yes. That. It's nothing major,' and he grins. 'I've got a publishing deal!'