Lucy Holliday - A Night In With Marilyn Monroe

They set off along the street for their evening walk, and I crouch down to tap in the code for the key safe, then let myself into Adam’s house.

As ever, it’s an oasis of tranquillity.

An oasis of ever-so-slightly sterile, obsessive-compulsive neat-freak tranquillity, perhaps, but an oasis nevertheless.

I mean, if I ever ended up living here with Adam, there’s so much I’d do to make the place a bit … well, a bit less like an absolutely stunning show home, and a bit more like a place to really live in. I’d funk up the cream-and-grey colour scheme for starters, put up a few pictures on the walls in the hallway in place of all the space-enhancing mirrors, make the chrome and grey marble kitchen, where I’m just heading now, a warm and welcoming place to hang out in with our friends, rather than like a photo in a glossy interiors magazine. I’d replace the steel kitchen table with a nice big wooden one, like the one Olly has in his kitchen, and I’d replace the Perspex chairs with mismatched painted chairs, again just like Olly’s chairs, and I’d redo the smart, slightly soulless patio area you can see out of the bifold doors at the back; turn it into a proper garden, with grass and flowerbeds and a barbecue … The cosiest part of the whole kitchen is Fritz’s den, in a little nook on the far side of the range cooker (for maximum warmth), and even this is still stylish enough to feature in a doggy version of World of Interiors , with its custom-made safety gate to close him off from any hot-fat-spitting danger when Adam is cooking, and its selection of Kelly Hoppen cushions for him to rest his weary rump on.

But it’s not the time to stand here mentally remodelling Adam’s beautiful home (not to mention that we’re not yet anywhere near the moving-in stage), because I’ve no idea what sort of time he’ll be getting back, and I want to make sure I’m all ready in my sexy lingerie for when he does.

Or rather, my downright slutty lingerie.

Because I’m pulling out all the stops tonight, I’ll be honest. I’ve already ramped up the raunch factor on the lingerie I’ve been wearing for most of our snogging-on-the-sofa nights, in the hope that something – the lacy, plunge-front bra; the tactile silken camisole; the wispy, semi-transparent knickers – might get Adam going enough to override all the perfectly good reasons why we haven’t done the deed. But none of it has worked, so tonight I’m breaking out the Ribbony Elasticky Thing.

I get it out from the bottom of my bag, now, where it’s nestled since I left my flat earlier today.

You know, I’m still none the wiser as to what kind of garment it actually is.

I bought it half-price in the Myla sale at the very height of my relationship with Dillon, and though it provided for several extremely pleasant evenings, its precise definition remains a mystery. It’s not a basque. It’s not a corset. I suppose the most accurate description would be ‘playsuit’, but I’m not at all sure it contains enough material even to fall into that category. It’s just a collection of very, very small pieces of black lacy fabric, held together with strings of black satin ribbon, or lengths of wide black elastic. It requires either a degree in mechanical engineering or nerves of steel and the patience of a saint to get the thing on – though funnily enough Dillon never had the slightest difficulty in getting it off – and tonight, ladies and gentlemen, I shall be hoisting myself into it along with my highest heels, a cheeky smile … and absolutely nothing else.

Oh, well, obviously the ‘Marilyn collection’ earrings Adam admired so much earlier. Just in case all the black lace and general sauciness doesn’t get him going, my fabulous accessories, with any luck, will do the job.

The only trouble is, as I find when I start to hoick myself into it now, that the last time I wore the Ribbony Elasticky Thing, I was a good half-stone lighter (it’s not that Dillon pressured me into losing weight, or anything – in fact, he was always superlatively appreciative of my distinctly non-model-worthy curves – but you try sharing a bathroom mirror with a man as impressively fit as Dillon for more than a couple of occasions, and see if you can resist the temptation to cut out pudding. And bread. And chips. And lunch). The Ribbony Elasticky Thing goes up reasonably smoothly over my thighs, requires a bit of jiggling to get it up over my hips, but when I get to the bit that (barely) covers my stomach, which is where the majority of my regained weight has generously portioned itself, it starts to become a bit of a struggle.

In the war of Libby Lomax versus Ribbony Elasticky Thing, Ribbony Elasticky Thing is definitely winning this particular battle when my phone rings.

When I reach down to grab my phone from my bag, I can see that it’s Nora calling.

Well, at least it’s a call that’s actually worth the temporary defeat to a piece of lingerie.

A regular call, not FaceTime, thank God, because long-time best friends as we are, there’s no way I’d subject Nora to the sight of me half in, half out of my sluttiest underwear. I know she probably sees more disturbing sights on an average shift in her work as an emergency medicine registrar, but I wouldn’t actually put money on it, or anything.

‘Hi, Nor,’ I say, as I answer the phone. ‘Everything OK?’

‘Is everything OK with you ?’ she replies. ‘You’re not … exercising , are you?’

It speaks volumes about my affection for physical exertion that Nora sounds so astonished as she asks this.

‘Christ, no. I’m just putting on some … er … clothes.’

‘Full-body armour? A HazMat suit? Because it sounds as if you’re getting out of puff there, Lib.’

‘I am, a bit. But it’s not a suit of armour. The opposite, actually.’ I prop the phone between my ear and shoulder, and start again on my attempt to e-a-s-e the Ribbony Elasticky Thing up over my tummy. ‘I’m at Adam’s. Just getting ready for … well, a nice romantic night in.’

‘Oh. Right.’

It’s ironic – and a bit incomprehensible, really – that Nora, who’s spent much of the past few months urging to me to get out there and meet someone so that I can lay the ghost of my failed fling with Dillon O’Hara to rest, is a bit down on the whole idea of Adam. She was excited when I first told her – waiting for our flight last night – that I’d started seeing someone new, but then she seemed to cool off on the news when I explained how I’d met him.

‘I forgot to ask yesterday,’ she says, now, ‘but have you … er … mentioned anything about this Adam guy to Olly yet? Because if you haven’t, don’t you think that maybe you should? Given that they work together, and everything.’

‘I haven’t, yet. But you don’t really think he’s going to mind , do you, Nor? I mean, I know it could be awkward if they worked together properly – like, in the same office, or something – just in case things didn’t work out between me and Adam, and Olly ended up having to take a side. But they only meet up every so often, and it’ll be even less once the restaurant is actually up and running.’

‘True.’ Nora clears her throat. ‘I wish you’d tell him soon, though, Libby. I’ll feel awkward, if I don’t mention anything about it the entire time I’m staying here.’

‘It’s perfectly OK to mention it! It’s not a big secret or anything. Besides, I’m sure he’ll be pleased. He likes Adam. And it’s not like I’m going out with, well, You Know Who, or anything.’

I’m talking about Dillon, not Voldemort, by the way. I just tend to avoid mentioning his actual name to either Nora or Olly, because they still get a bit worked up about him, even all these months on. I mean, I think I got over Dillon’s shoddy behaviour faster than either Nora or Olly did, and that’s saying something. The trouble is that Olly loathed Dillon right from the start – so much so that he resorted to threats of physical violence with kitchen equipment even before the Miami hurricane fiasco. There isn’t enough kitchen equipment in the world to carry out all the things Olly wanted to do to Dillon afterwards .