don't mean to say anything, really I don't, but my mother is banging on about me being single again, and before I know it it just slips out that last night I had a date with Ed McMahon, and my mother being my mother knows exactly who Ed McMahon is, and she's so shocked all the colour practically drains from her face.

'Not Ed McMahon the finance person?'

'Yes, Mum,' I say, and I can't help the hint of pride in my voice. 'Ed McMahon the finance person.'

For one ghastly minute I think she's about to hug me, but thankfully she doesn't.

'How on earth did you meet him?' she says.

'I met him at Mezzo,' I say. 'And he took my number, and he's been calling ever since.'

'Mezzo?' she says in awe, because my mother, despite never actually leaving suburbia, dreams of doing so on a regular basis, and consequently reads every style magazine on the shelves. She is what we in PR would call aspirational. 'What's it like?'

'It's fine.' I shrug. 'Big.'

'And you met Ed McMahon there? Well, Libby, all I can say is this time don't blow it.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'You heard me. Don't mess this one up. Ed McMahon's very, very rich.'

'God, Mum,' I say in disgust, 'is that all you ever think about?'

And the funny thing is that all day Sunday, when I think about my evening with Ed, I find myself smiling, and it's not a lustful, falling-head-over-heels type of smile, but an I-had-quite-a-nice-time-and-I'm-surprised kind of smile, and although I wouldn't go as far as saying I can't wait until Tuesday, I would say that I'm quite looking forward to it because the man's definitely got something, I'm simply not entirely sure what it is.

And I feel quite grown up about this. Sure, the fact that Ed's in his late thirties means I have to be mature when I'm with him anyway, but I feel incredibly grown up at being able to go out with someone like him, though I don't feel all those things that I did with Nick.

Even the way my mother already seems to be planning the wedding day doesn't rile me. In fact, I think it's quite funny, although I'm not planning on marrying Ed.

Obviously.

'So tell me what he's like?'

I have my mother's undivided attention.

'He's nice.'

'What do you mean, he's nice? There must be something else you can say about him.'

'Okay. He's nice, and…' — I watch her face closely — 'he drives a Porsche.'

She practically swoons before regaining her composure. 'A Porsche? What was it like, being driven in a Porsche?'

'Comfortable, Mum. What do you think?'

'So where did he take you?'

'The River Cafe.'

'Ooh. That's meant to be very expensive. What did you have?'

I tell her, and quite enjoy that she hangs on to my every word, and for once I'm getting as much attention as Olly.

'And does he want to see you again?'

I nod. 'We're going out on Tuesday.'

'That's so exciting! What are you going to wear? For heaven's sake don't wear one of those awful trouser suits you always wear. Wear something feminine. Haven't you got any nice dresses?'

I knew it was too good to last. Here we go again, Libby can't do anything right.

'My trouser suits happen to be designer, actually,' I say indignantly. 'And there's nothing wrong with them. Everyone wears them.'

'But men like feminine women,' she says defiantly. 'They like to see a nice pair of legs.'

I shake my head in amazement. 'If I didn't know better I'd say you were still living in the 1950s.'

'That's as may be,' she says with a sniff. 'But I know what men like, and I know they don't like hard, masculine, career girls.'

Before I get a chance to tell her how ridiculous she's being, the phone rings. Talk about being saved by the bell.

'Olly!' she says. 'Hello, darling. How are you?'

I stretch and put my feet on the coffee table as I flick on the TV.

'Hang on. Off!' she says to me, brushing my feet from the table, so just to piss her off I turn the volume up to drown her out.

'Libby!' she shouts. 'Turn that down. It's your brother. From Manchester.'

As if I didn't know, but I turn it down.

'How's my gorgeous boy, then?' she says, as I grimace at the TV set. 'Oh, Dad and I are fine, but we're missing you. When are you coming down to see us? I see. No, no, don't worry, I know how busy you are. How's the series coming along? You are clever, Olly!'

'You are clever, Olly!' I mimic to myself in what I mean to be a whisper, except she hears and shoots me a filthy look.

'Your sister's here,' she says. 'Yes. Hang on. All right, my darling. I'll speak to you this week. Big kiss from Dad and I,' and she passes the phone to me.

'Hey, Oll,' I say distractedly, because I'm watching some disgusting outfits being paraded up and down a catwalk on The Clothes Show.

'Hey, big sis. How's it going?'

'Fine. You?'

'Yeah. Good.'

'How are your friends?'

'What?'

'You know, Oll, your friends.'

'Oh!' He starts laughing. 'You mean Carolyn?'

'Mmm hmm.'

'She's really nice. Can't quite believe it, I just really like being with her.'

'That's great, Oll' I ignore my mum looking quizzically at me, doubtless trying to work out what we're talking about.

'How 'bout you? How's Nick?'

'Finished. Kaput. Over.'

'Oh, Libby, I'm sorry. He seemed like a really nice bloke. What happened?'

I look at my mum, who's now pretending to be immersed in dusting the side tables, but I know her ears are fully alert.

'Tell you later.'

He laughs. 'Mum's in the room, then?'

'As ever.'

'Anyone new on the scene?'

'Kind of. Had dinner with this guy last night, and he's nice, but I'm not sure he's my type.'

My mother raises an eyebrow.

'Anyway,' I continue, 'we'll see.'

'Okay. You should come up and stay here,' he says. 'Seriously, it would be so nice to spend some time with you. I haven't seen you properly, just you and me, for ages.'

'Yeah.' I nod. 'That'd be great. I'll check my diary and let you know.'

We say goodbye and I get up to go.

'What would be really nice?' My mother's pretending she's not really interested.

'I might go and stay with Olly,' I say. 'He just invited me.'

'Oh, what a good idea!' she says, suddenly beaming. 'Maybe Dad and I will come too, we could all get the train up there together. A proper family outing!'

'Hmph.' I shrug. 'Maybe.'

On Monday morning Jo buzzes me from reception.

'Jesus Christ!' she says. 'You'd better come out here.'

'Why?'

'Just come out here! Now!'

I walk through the office to the reception desk, and there, on the counter, is a forest. Well, okay, not quite a forest, but an arrangement of flowers that's so big it's threatening to take over the room.

'Jesus Christ!' I echo. 'These are for me?'

'They certainly are,' she says, the grin stretching across her face. 'Come on, come on. Open the card. Who are they from?'

I open the card with fingers that are shaking ever so slightly, and I suppose a part of me hopes they're from Nick, though I know they won't be, because flowers aren't Nick's style, plus he could never afford something like this. These must have cost a fortune.

'Dearest Libby,' I read out loud. 'Just wanted to thank you for a wonderful evening. Can't wait until Tuesday. With love, Ed.'

'Who the fuck's Ed?'

'Just an admirer,' I say breezily, skipping back into the office with the flowers and loving, loving the admiring glances I get on the way.

And I know this might sound a bit stupid, but I'd quite like to send him something in return, even though I know you're not really supposed to, and it's not because I desperately fancy him, but because he did a nice thing for me and I'd like to repay him somehow.

And I suppose if I did fancy him I wouldn't be able to do this, because I'd be far too busy playing games and playing hard to get. But number one, I don't really care if me sending something to him scares him off, and number two, I'm pretty damn sure it won't anyway. I suppose it's sod's law, isn't it? The ones that like you are never the ones you're interested in, and the ones you like are always the bastards. But Ed's different. I'm not really sure how I feel. I know that I'm not in lust with him, but I also know that I'd like to see him again. I'm just so fed up with being on my own, and Nick may not want me, but Ed certainly does, and that's a bloody nice feeling. So this is why I want to do something for him.

But what?

I go back out to Jo.

'Okay,' I sigh. 'You win. I'll tell you everything if you help me out,' and I do.

'Got it!' she says when I've finally finished, although I didn't give her the long version, I kept it as short as I possibly could. 'Send him a virtual food basket!'

'A what?'

'On the Internet! You can go to these places and send virtual flowers and food baskets, they're amazing. It's a seriously cool thing to do, and you'll probably blow his mind. Hang on. Does he have e-mail?'

'How the hell should I know?'

'Check his business card.'

So I run back and get it, and, sure enough, there at the bottom is his e-mail address.

'Okay,' says Jo. 'Let me just get someone to cover for me, then I'll show you how to do it.'

Ten minutes later Jo's sitting in front of the computer, tapping away, and there it is! A site that shows you pictures of flowers and presents which you can send to people.

'Is this going to cost anything?'

'Nah. Don't be daft. They're virtual, aren't they? That means they're not real.'

She clicks on a picture of a basket stuffed with crisps, cakes and biscuits, then over her shoulder says to me, 'What do you want to say?'

'How about, Dear Ed, thank you for your beautiful flowers. I thought you might be hungry but save the Oreos for me. They're my favourite… Looking forward to seeing you on Tuesday. Libby.'

'Love, Libby?' Jo asks, typing in my message.

'Oh, all right then. Love, Libby. So what happens now?'

'You just send it, and they get a message on their e-mail saying they've had a virtual delivery and it gives instructions on where to go to pick up the present.'

'That's amazing. Can I have a go?'

'What? More admirers?'

'Hmm.' Jo stands up and I sit in her place as she wanders back to reception, and ten minutes later I've sent virtual food baskets to Jules, Jamie, Olly and Sal.

Unsurprisingly, Jules calls half an hour later, and she's laughing so hard I can hardly hear her. 'That is fantastic!' she splutters. 'How in the hell did you do that?'

'More to the point, Jules, what are you doing checking your e-mail in the middle of the day? Shouldn't you be interior designing or something?'

'Should be,' she says.' I was just getting on the Internet to try and find some suppliers of this Spanish furniture I'm looking for. Someone said they had a site on the Web, and my e-mail told me I had a delivery. It's bloody inspired, Libby! I love it!'

I tell her about the flowers and about sending the same basket to Ed, and I can hear her squealing and clapping her hands on the other end of the phone.

'Jesus, Libby!' she says. 'He's going to fall head over heels in love with you! I bet he's never met anyone like you before!'

I bet he hasn't either.

At the end of the day, just before I leave, I check my e-mail, just in case, and sure enough there's a message from EMcMhn@compuserve.com.

'Dearest Libby,' it says. 'I'm now absolutely stuffed! What a delightful surprise, and I'm so pleased you received the flowers. I must say, no one's ever done anything like that for me before… Can hardly wait to see you again. Much love, Ed.'

'Cor,' says Jo, who's standing behind me, reading this over my shoulder. 'Now. He. Is. Keen.'

And I go home with a smile on my face.

I sneaked off early today, to have enough time to get ready, because I want to look good tonight and not necessarily for Ed, more for me, but I could really get used to these flowers and this general feeling of having met someone who could, possibly, adore me.

So it's face pack time, and deep conditioning hair stuff time, and new MAC lipstick time, and anyway, there's nothing wrong in trying to look the best you can possibly look, is there? Plus, Nick never appreciated the designer Libby, and it's bloody nice to dress up again, even though I'm still thinking about Nick, just not quite as often.

And again, tonight, I don't bother with the old razors, because, like Ed as I do, I can't get my head round anything physical happening between us, and even if it were to happen, there's no way it would happen tonight, so that's why, underneath my trousers (yup, trousers; my mother can go to hell), my legs are again as hairy as, well, as someone who hasn't shaved them for a week or so.

I'd like to run with this one, as it were. Not jump into bed, or jump into a relationship, but keep seeing him and see what happens. Whether I might grow to like him, whether he might turn out to be someone special, whether I could actually persuade him to shave off that bloody moustache.

And I'm pretty damned pleased with how I look tonight. A pale grey trouser suit with little pearl earrings that are really not my style at all, but they were a present from my mum a couple of birthdays ago, and flat cream suede shoes.

God. If my mother could see me now! I look like the epitome of a sophisticated young woman. Apart from the trousers, that is. I almost laugh at the sight of myself because I look more like a Sloane Ranger than Princess Diana in her early days, but this look fits with Ed, and it's quite good fun, dressing up. I sort of feel a bit like a child playing a big game. Let's pretend to be sophisticated, smart and mature. What fun! Hey ho! Jesus.

The phone rings just as I've finished applying a final coat of clear nail polish. Couldn't have gone for my beloved blues or greens — far too trendy for Ed.

'What have you eaten today?' Naturally, it's Jules.

'Nothing for breakfast. A milk chocolate Hobnob at about eleven o'clock, d'you know how many calories they are?'

'I think they're about seventy-eight.'

'Oh shit. Anyway. A Caesar salad for lunch, and an apple halfway through the afternoon.'

'That's good. You've been really good. The biscuit wasn't bad, not if you compare it to what I've had today.'

'Go on.'

'Okay. For breakfast I had a huge bowl of cornflakes. Huge. Really. Disgusting. Then at about ten o'clock I was hungry again, so I had three chocolate Bourbons. At lunch I went out with a client and had grilled vegetables swimming in olive oil to start with, then a huge plate of pasta in a creamy sauce, and then we shared a crème brûlée but she hardly ate anything, I had practically the whole thing.'

Jules is such a bloody liar. I know exactly what she's like. She probably had a tiny bowl of cornflakes. No Bourbons. Plain vegetables. A couple of mouthfuls of pasta and a taste of the crème brûlée. There's no way Jules would be as slim as she is if she really ate what she says she does. I know there are times when she's telling the truth, but I also know that most of the time she's so bloody fat-conscious she only picks at food, doesn't really eat anything. She's more than a little obsessed, which is why we have so many food phone calls a day. I don't mind, really I don't, but I wish she'd stop thinking about it quite as much as she does.

Although I suppose I'm not that much better.

But she encourages me.

Not that I wouldn't think about it at all if we didn't talk about it.

But I wouldn't think about it as much…

'I'm not going to have any dinner,' she says firmly. 'That's it for today. And tomorrow I'm going on a diet.'

'Oh, for God's sake, Jules!'

'What? What?'

'Never mind.' There's no point in telling her she doesn't need to lose weight, if anything she needs to put it on, because she won't believe me. The number of times we've gone out and the first thing she says to me is, 'Do I look fat?' and I look at her skinny, waif-like frame and say, 'No! Don't be ridiculous,' and she says, 'Can't you see it on my face? There? Look.' And she taps a nonexistent double chin and spends the rest of the day, or evening, smoothing this invisible double chin away.

God. What it is to be a woman.

'So what are you wearing?'

I tell her.

'Mmm. Very sophis.'

'I know. It's not really me, but I couldn't turn up in something dead trendy or he'd faint.'

'You know what you are?'

'What?'

'You're a chameleon girlfriend.'

'A what?'

'I was reading an article about it. It's about women who change their image, their hobbies, pretty much everything, depending on the man they're with.'

I wish I didn't have to say this, but as usual Jules is absolutely right, and I've always done it. I've tried to change myself depending on the man of the moment, and I know it's wrong, even as I'm doing it I know it's wrong, but I can't seem to help it.

Jules has never done it, she's never had to, and once we sat down and tried to figure out why I do it — although we didn't have a name for it at the time — and the only reason we could come up with was low self-esteem.

Jules has decided that because Olly was the one who had all the glory, I never think that anyone's going to like me for myself, and that's why I always try and become someone else. If you're confused, trust me, no one's more confused about it than me.

'So tell me something else I didn't know,' I say bitterly, because, much as I love Jules, I suppose I'm slightly envious of her confidence.

'Don't take it like that,' she says, sounding wounded. 'It's fine. I'm quite jealous of it, in fact. You can wake up in the morning and think, hmm, who am I going to be today?'

I can't help it. I laugh.

'I wish I could be more like you sometimes,' she says, and I nearly fall off my chair.

'Jules! You're nuts! You'd like to be single with no self-esteem and a radar that warns off all decent men and only attracts the bastards?'

'Ed's not a bastard.'

'Not yet. Anyway, he's not good-looking enough to be a bastard.'

'And Jon was good-looking?'

'Okay, okay, so he wasn't your type. But I thought he was good-looking.'

'Listen, Jamie's back, I gotta go. Have a fantastic evening, and call me first thing.'

'Thanks, sweetie. Bye.'

'Oh, Libby?'

I put the receiver back to my ear.

'Don't do anything I wouldn't do!' and, cackling, she puts down the phone.

Now this is getting ridiculous. The doorbell rings, I open the door, and once again Ed's standing on the doorstep holding a huge bouquet of roses.

'Ed,' I say, loving this attention but not wanting to get too used to it, to take it for granted. 'You must stop buying me flowers. It's beginning to look like a florist's in here. I'm running out of vases!'

'Oh. Er. Sorry, Libby.' He looks crestfallen and I feel like a bitch.

'No, no, don't be silly. It's just that you're spoiling me, but they're beautiful. Thank you.'

He comes in and stands in the living room, as I open lots of cupboard doors, hoping that there's a vase I've forgotten about. In the end I pull a milk bottle out of the fridge and empty the milk down the sink.

And although I have to cut down the stems by about a foot, the roses actually look pretty damn nice in a milk bottle. It must be the mix of the luxury and the everyday.

A bit like me and Ed, really.