ibby!' cries Sal, flinging her arms around me in a huge bear-hug. 'God, it's been ages. Look at you! You look fantastic!' This, incidentally, is the way Sally speaks. In exclamation "marks.

'Thanks,' I say, believing her because who, after all, wouldn't look fantastic in their brand-new, super-expensive, long, pale-grey, cotton-ribbed cardigan, teamed with grey flannel trousers and sexy high-heeled black boots. 'So do you,' I add, although Sal always looks the same to me. With her natural auburn hair in a sort of fluffy medium-length layered bob, she always looks good in a timeless sort of way because Sal doesn't believe in following fashion, she believes in finding the look that suits you and wearing it until you die.

So, as I said, she always looks pretty much the same. Long, flowing skirts, occasionally jodhpurs, riding boots, fitted jackets and a silk scarf knotted casually around her throat. Tonight it's the turn of the jodhpurs, and I see why.

'Jesus, Sal,' I say, stepping back, because there is something different about her tonight. 'You've lost so much weight.'

'Have I!' she says, with a cheesy grin, because of course she knows she has. She'd never dare wear those camel-coloured skin-tight jodhpurs if she hadn't. 'Must be love!' she whispers loudly, taking my hand and leading me to a table in the corner. 'You must come and meet the others.'

What an, er, eclectic, bunch. This is something that I've always admired about Sal: her choice in friends, her willingness to mix and match, just to throw people together and not worry about the consequences. I, on the other hand, spend my life in a constant panic about whether people will get on with one another, desperately trying to keep my groups of friends separate. There are my trendy media friends, mostly people I've met through work; my university friends; my oldest friends from school; and my art class friends, except I haven't been for ages so I haven't really seen them recently. And then there's Jules, who's my take-anywhere friend, because she's the one person who fits in with everyone.

But Sal doesn't discriminate, and I can see that there are a few familiar faces.

'Hi,' I say with a smile to Kathy, Sal's oldest friend, a tall stunning blonde who oozes style and sophistication and seems to have a constant stream of equally gorgeous men at her side.

'Libby,' she says, stretching out a smooth tanned cheek to kiss the air next to mine. 'How are you? It's been so long. You must meet Phil,' and she gestures to the drop-dead gorgeous hunk at her side.

'Delighted to meet you,' he says, in possibly one of the poshest voices I've ever heard, and holds out his hand to shake mine, which floors me for a few moments because outside the office nobody I know shakes hands, but then I realize why he's holding out his hand, so, surreptitiously trying to wipe my damp palms on my cardigan, I shake his hand firmly and say a businesslike 'How do you do', because I can't be too friendly to someone this gorgeous in case Kathy thinks I'm flirting with him, which I'd never do, and as soon as I say it I turn away to see who else I know.

'You remember Paul,' says Sal, putting a stool down next to a baby-faced scruffy young man sipping from a pint who I know is her latest boyfriend, but I'm not sure why I should remember him.

'Umm.' I'm not sure I do, actually.

'Of course you do,' she says. 'Paul worked with me on the Sunday Mail.'

'Oh, Paul!' I say. 'That Paul. Sorry. God, finally I can put a face to the name.'

He grins at me. 'I know what you mean. You must spend all day talking to journalists and never knowing what they look like.'

'Unless,' I say, grinning cheekily, suddenly remembering that I have seen him before,' unless, the journalist in question has been out for the day wearing a miniskirt to test the latest men's fashion.'

'Shit,' he groans. 'I thought I'd lived that one down.' And we both laugh.

'And Nick,' says Sal, making big eyes at me which I don't quite understand, but then I turn to Nick and realize that he's the one she used to fancy and that she's trying to warn me telepathically not to say anything. 'You must remember Nick.'

Nick turns to look at me, and nods. 'Hi, Libby,' he says, and somehow the way he says my name makes it sound really intimate, and I feel a tiny shiver at the base of my spine.

Hello? What's this all about, then? And I look closely at Nick and it's as if I'm seeing him for the first time. God, I think. I never realized his eyes were that blue. And he's had his hair cut. It's not in a straggly pony-tail any more, it's a short buzz cut that brings out these incredible sculpted cheekbones, and Jesus, he's handsome, and in an instant I remember what that shiver is. Lust. Pure and simple.

This could be my fling, I think, settling back into my chair and switching into flirt mode. Nick. Perfect.

'So what have you been up to?' he says, giving me what is definitely an appreciative glance.

'Working hard as usual,' I say, instantly regretting how dull it sounds, and racking my brain for an amusing story.

'I like your hair,' he says, and another shiver goes through me. 'You've changed it.'

And I have. I'd had long hair, dead straight, and a fringe the last time I saw Nick. Now it's shoulder-length, no fringe, and flicking up at the bottom.

'You're not supposed to remember hair,' I laugh. 'You're a bloke.'

'You'd be surprised at what I remember,' he says with a smile.

'What do you mean?'

'The last time I saw you was at Sal's party two years ago,' he says.

'Nope.' I shake my head. 'Not impressed. Any bloke would remember that.'

'You had your hair up,' he continues, still smiling. 'And you were wearing black leather trousers, trainers, and a bright orange T-shirt which said "Bizarre" on it.'

'Jesus Christ.' My mouth is hanging open. 'Now I am impressed. How the hell do you remember what I was wearing?'

He shrugs. 'I told you you'd be surprised.'

'No, but seriously,' I push, 'how did you remember that?'

'Let's just say I have a very good memory for things I want to remember.'

'Oh,' I say in a small voice, as it dawns on me that maybe he wasn't being stand-offish all those times I had met him. Maybe he fancied me? Maybe?

'So the exciting world of PR is still as exciting as ever, then?' he says.

'I know you think PR's a complete waste of time,' I start, even though I don't know, I just suspect, 'but it suits me. I like it.'

'I don't think it's a waste of time.' He sounds surprised. 'And when my novel becomes a best-seller you'll probably be the first people I come to.'

'You've got a deal?' My voice is high with excitement. This is getting better and better. If Nick's signed a deal, then he's got money, and if he's got money that instantly makes him eligible, and if he's eligible, then, and only then, can I imagine us together.

'Nah,' he sighs. 'Still trying.'

'Oh. What's the book about?' I'm being polite, okay? I think he'll just give me a two-minute synopsis, but ten minutes later he stops, seeing my eyes glaze over.

'Shit, I'm sorry. I've bored you.'

'No, no,' I say quickly, shaking my mind awake. 'I just don't know all that much about politics, so it doesn't mean a great deal to me.

'But it sounds excellent,' I add enthusiastically. 'I can't believe it hasn't been published.'

'I know,' he says sadly. 'Neither can I.

'What are you drinking?' He stands up, and I tell him a Sea Breeze if they've got it, and if they haven't got any cranberry juice then a vodka and soda with a dash of lime.

'Well,' says Sal in a knowing voice when he's gone off to get the drinks. 'You and Nick seem to be getting on rather well.'

I shrug. 'He seems nice, that's all. I never realized.'

'You should go for it,' she says. 'I could see you two together.'

'You don't fancy him any more then?' I whisper.

'Don't be daft,' she laughs. 'I've got Paul now. I don't know what I ever saw in Nick —' She stops, realizing what she's just said. 'I didn't mean that, he's gorgeous, it's simply that I see now we would never have been right together. You, on the other hand—'

I laugh. 'Sal! You're crazy. I can't see us together at all.'

'Why not?' She looks startled, and I remember how she doesn't think about the important things, about our lifestyles, how different we are.

'Just look at us,' I say, feebly gesturing at my designer clothes, and then pointing at Nick, at his dirty jeans, his scruffy loose jumper with holes in the sleeves, his scuffed Doc Martens.

'What?' she says again, brow furrowed because she isn't getting it. 'What am I looking at?'

'Oh, never mind,' I laugh. 'He's definitely not the one for me, but he is nice. He's really quite sexy.'

'Maybe you should just get together and see what happens,' she says, smiling, leaning back to make way for Nick, who's returning with a fresh round of drinks.

'Maybe I should,' I say, thinking that the getting together bit would suit me just perfectly right now, but I know what would happen. We wouldn't fit, is what would happen. But that's okay, I remind myself. I don't want a potential husband or even a boyfriend. I just want some fun. No strings attached.

'What are you two gossiping about?' says Nick, and I can tell from his smile his ears were burning.

'Er, just work,' says Sal, who is completely crap at lying.

'I see,' he says, sitting down and sliding my vodka over to me. 'Not discussing men, then, were you?'

'No!' says Sal, giving me a hugely indiscreet thumbs-up and turning to snuggle into Paul's shoulder.

Nick and I talk all evening, and, once the book is out of the way, it turns out that he really is interesting, and funny, and different.

'If you won the lottery what would you do?' he asks at one point, and I practically squeal with pleasure because I love questions like this.

'How much?'

'Whatever,' he says.

'No, no. You have to do it properly. You have to name a figure.'

'Okay,' he says, grinning. 'Five million pounds.'

I sit back, thinking about all the lovely things I could buy with five million pounds.

'Well,' I start. 'I'd buy a house.'

'What kind of house and where?'

'One of those huge white ones in Holland Park.'

'You do realize that would set you back about three million quid.'

'Oh. Okay. A small white one in Maida Vale.'

'For how much?'

'Five hundred thousand?'

He nods. 'And how would you decorate it?'

I describe my dream house, except I get a bit lost after I've done the living room, the bathroom, the kitchen and the bedroom, because I've never had to think about any other rooms.

'What about the dining room?' Nick asks. 'What about bedroom number four? What about your second bathroom? What about the study?'

'Oh, God,' I finally groan. 'Too many rooms. Maybe I'll just settle for an amazing two-bedroom flat with huge rooms and a split-level galleried bit to work in.'

'So. You've got four and a half million left.'

'No, a bit less. I'd probably spend about a hundred thousand doing it up.'

He looks at me as if I'm crazy, then shakes his head and laughs. 'Okay, 4.4 million pounds to go. What else?'

'I'd buy a holiday home in the Caribbean.'

'You're big on homes, aren't you?'

'What do you expect? I'm a child of Thatcher's generation.'

'Hmm,' he sniffs. 'Don't tell me you voted for her?'

'No,' I lie expertly, saying what I always say. 'I voted for the Green Party.'

'Did you?' He looks, well, if not impressed, at least not completely pissed off, and for a moment I think of telling him the truth, that I don't give a stuff about politics and the only reason I voted Tory was because my parents had, that it could have been anyone leading my country. I just didn't care.

I decide to keep lying.

'Yes,' I say, nodding. 'None of the other parties seemed to offer anything, and you know what politicians are like. They're all untrustworthy bastards.' This last line I'd heard at a party, and I thought it sounded rather good, like I knew what I was talking about and it works. Nick nods in agreement, as if I've just said something very sensible.

'Anyway,' I continue, bringing the conversation back on to more familiar footing.' My house in the Caribbean.'

'Ah, yes,' he says, smiling. 'That's far more important than politics.'

'Absolutely.' I go on to describe the house I would build on the tiny island of Anguilla.

'So we're about a million down,' he says. 'What else?'

'I'd probably take about a hundred thousand and go on a mad shopping spree,' I admit.

'A hundred thousand? Jesus Christ. What would you be shopping for? Diamonds and pearls?'

'Nope.' I shake my head. 'Far too old for my youthful years. I'd go to Armani, Prada, Gucci…'

'Top Shop?' asks Nick. 'Oasis?'

'Are you crazy?' I say. 'I'd never demean myself by stepping foot in anywhere like that.'

'Oh, right.' He grins. 'Of course. How stupid of me,' and he holds out his hand, which I slap very gently.

'Anyway,' I say, 'how come you know about 'Oasis?'

'I know a lot of things,' he laughs.

'You're not really a bloke, are you?' I say, narrowing my eyes and squinting at him. 'You're a girl.'

'Damn,' he says, shaking his head and laughing. 'And I hoped you hadn't noticed.'

At about three million pounds I run out of ideas. I have, by this point, two homes, a wardrobe that would make Oprah Winfrey jealous, a convertible Porsche 911, a live-in cleaning woman who doesn't actually live with me, but in the granny flat I stick on to the basement of my house and numerous investments in property. I don't know what to do with the rest.

'I'd, er, give the rest to charity,' I say magnanimously, hoping he won't ask which ones, because I couldn't name a charity if my life depended on it, and anyway I might give a bit to charity, but I honestly can't see me donating two million quid. No matter how worthy.

'Which charity?' he asks. He would.

'I'd give to a few. That breast cancer one. The…' — I think hard. 'NSPCC I remember those little blue plastic collection boxes they used to give you at school. 'AIDS Research, lots to them. And animal charities! Yes, I'd give loads to animal charities so no more little ponies and horses in my cat food.

'What about you?' I look at Nick. 'What would you do?'

He sits and thinks about it for a bit. 'I don't think I'd move,' he says. 'There's no real point because I'm quite happy.'

'Where do you live?'

'In Highgate.'

'Do you live by yourself?' But that isn't what I'm asking. I'm asking whether he owns his own flat, whether he is responsible, whether he can support a wife. But no, I stop myself, I'm not going to be his wife. He's not going to be my husband. It doesn't matter.

'Mmm,' he nods. 'I've got a bedsit, and I suppose I could get a one-bedroom flat, but I'm happy where I am.'

'You'd have to buy somewhere,' I say sternly. 'You've got to get your foot on the ladder.' Another phrase I've picked up somewhere that I always use when talking about property.

'Do I? Why?'

'Because…' I suddenly don't know why, other than that I've been brought up to believe that everyone should own their own house if they possibly can.

'Because you're one of Thatcher's children, right?'

'Well, so are you,' I say in my defence.

'Ish,' he says.

'Ish?'

'I may be only a couple of years older than you, but my parents were dyed in the wool Labour supporters.'

'But you grew up during Thatcher's time.'

'So does that mean I was supposed to believe in her?'

'No, it's just sometimes hard to go against what you've been brought up to believe in.'

'It wasn't what I was brought up to believe in.'

I'm getting out of my depth. I stand up. 'Another pint?' and he laughs.

'So okay, you won't buy a mansion,' I say when I come back.

'No, no,' he says. 'I've been thinking about it and you're probably right. I should buy somewhere, but it wouldn't be anything amazing. I might even buy the flat I'm living in.'

I look at him in horror. 'A bedsit?'

'Okay,' he laughs. 'I'll buy a one-bedroom flat.'

'What else, what else?'

He sits deep in thought. 'I know!' he suddenly exclaims, his eyes lighting up. 'I'd buy a proper computer.'

'You mean you're writing a novel and you haven't got a computer?' I say slowly.

'I've got one of these typewriter things that has a tiny screen and you can see about three lines of what you've written on it.'

'You must be spending a fortune on Tipp-Ex,' I say.

'There we go,' he grins. 'I'd buy a lifetime's supply of Tipp-Ex.'

' But you wouldn't need Tipp-Ex if you had a computer.'

'I might get nostalgic.'

'For your battered old typewriter that takes for ever and can't go back and correct?'

'How do you know it's battered?'

'It is, isn't it?'

'Yes, slightly. But it has character. Computers seem a bit clinical.'

'Okay,' I sigh. 'We've probably spent less than a hundred thousand so far. You're not doing very well.'

'I could donate a sizeable amount to the Labour Party,' he says sheepishly.

'How much?'

'A million?'

'You can't give a million quid to bloody politicians!' I say in horror. 'You're hopeless.'

'Sorry,' he says, looking it. 'I'm just not very money-oriented.'

'Evidently,' and luckily he laughs, and when he does I can't help but notice how white his teeth are, how his face softens, how goddamned gorgeous he looks.

'So,' says Sal, leaning over and interrupting us. 'Have you got any good stories for me, then, Libby?'

I sit and think. 'Not really stories, but maybe you'd be interested in an interview with Sean Moore?'

'Sean Moore!' Her eyes light up. 'Are you doing him?'

I nod. 'We're doing the PR for his new TV series, and I'm setting up a round of interviews in a couple of weeks. You should have got the press release, I sent it to you last week.'

'Oh,' says Sal, looking guilty. 'I probably did get it, but I get so many press releases, half the time I don't even look at them.'

'What?' I say in mock dismay. 'You mean I go to all that trouble to think up something witty and clever, and it goes in the bin?'

'No,' she says. 'It joins the towering pile on my desk that's threatening to topple over and knock someone out.'

'You're forgiven…' I pause. 'As long as you give Sean a good show.'

'Double-page spread?'

'That would be brilliant.'

'One condition.'

I know what's coming.

'Can we have it exclusively?'

'I hate it when journalists say that,' I groan.

'But you know why we do,' she says. 'There's no point in running an interview with Sean Moore after it's appeared everywhere else.'

'Tell you what,' I say. 'I can't promise you an exclusive because we have to try and get as much coverage as possible, but what I can do is give it to you first, but, and I mean this, Sal, you have to run it when you say you will.' I'm sick to the back teeth of giving newspapers exclusive interviews, running out to buy the paper in the morning and finding it isn't there because another story was deemed to be more important. I then have to chase the journalist for days, and they usually keep telling me it's going in, they just don't know when, and before you know it the whole thing has been forgotten about.

'I will,' she nods. 'Promise.'

'Okay,' I say. 'Ring me in the office tomorrow.'

At eleven o'clock everyone starts getting up to leave.

'You know how it is,' says Kathy. 'School night.' And we put on our coats and wander outside, standing around in a big huddle to say goodbye.

'Where do you live?' asks Nick, just as I'm wondering how to say goodnight to him, and if, in fact, I want to say goodnight to him at all.

'Ladbroke Grove.' The regret is obvious in my voice. I mean, there's no way I can offer him a lift back to Highgate, it's just too damn unsubtle. 'Are you driving?' I say.

He shakes his head. 'No. I don't drive.'

'How do you get around?'

'I cycle.'

'So where's your bike?'

'I got the tube.'

'Oh.'

And then I have a brainwave. 'Do you want a lift to the tube?'

His face glows. 'I'd love one.'

And as we walk off I can see Sal grinning at me, and I can't help it. I start grinning too.