A Night In With Marilyn Monroe. Lucy Holliday

of sex aside, things are going sufficiently well with Adam that he’s let me know the code for his key safe, which is hidden under an artfully disguised fake rock in his tiny front garden. He’s told me to let myself into his house on a few occasions since we’ve been dating, mostly when he was running late and wanted me to go in and tell Fritz he loved him, and missed him, and hadn’t forgotten about him. So I’m just sort of hoping he doesn’t mind that I’m going to use the key to let myself in this evening, this time without his explicit say-so, to lie in wait for him in absurdly sexy lingerie and give him a wild night of sex that he’ll never forget.

      Or, that if he does mind that I’ve let myself in without his explicit say-so, that the absurdly sexy lingerie and the wild night of sex will go quite a long way to making him not mind any more.

      After a great meeting with a new client (a freelance stylist who’s keen to use a few of my pieces in an upcoming shoot with a Sunday supplement; how about that, Jonathan Hedley, Barclays Business Development manager, Clapham branch?) I’ve reached Adam’s house, a stunning Edwardian terrace in the middle of a street of stunning Edwardian terraces in Shepherd’s Bush. I’ve just let myself in through the gate, when I hear the front door of the neighbouring house open.

      And then I don’t hear anything else at all, because there’s such a thunderstorm of barking that a small bomb could go off nearby and I don’t think I’d notice.

      It’s Fritz, Adam’s German shepherd puppy, who’s just on his way out of the house with James Cadwalladr, Adam’s next-door neighbour.

      I’ve never actually met James Cadwalladr in person before, and this moment – as Fritz leaps the fence and starts inserting his nose gleefully into my groin – isn’t the ideal one for it to happen.

      I mean, I’m fairly accustomed to coming face-to-face with very, very handsome actors – I woke up next to Dillon O’Hara several mornings a week for the few short months of our relationship, didn’t I? – but James Cadwalladr has that whole arrogant Old Etonian thing going on, which is a lot more intimidating. He’s staring at me over the fence now, looking even more icy-cool and unimpressed than he does when you see him as that toff, cricket-loving detective on TV.

      ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘but who are you?’

      ‘I’m Libby,’ I say, breathlessly, trying to shove Fritz’s nose out of my groin and, when that doesn’t work, squatting down to meet him at doggy eye-level, in the hope that he’ll nuzzle into my neck instead. He doesn’t. He just goes lower and tries desperately to reach my groin again. (I can only hope his owner is equally determined, when he gets home for his surprise sex-fest later.) ‘I’m Adam’s girlfriend.’

      ‘You’re not.’

      ‘I am.’

      ‘You can’t be.’

      ‘I … er … am?’

      ‘You’re serious?’ He rakes back his posh-boy floppy hair and stares at me some more. ‘I didn’t know he’d got himself a girlfriend.’

      ‘Well, he has!’ I give up fighting Fritz and get back up again, whereupon he instantly loses interest in my groin (hurray!) and starts sniffing round the other side of me – to be precise, my bottom – instead. ‘I, um, know your wife, actually.’

      Posh James doesn’t look that much more interested in this. ‘Oh, yeah?’

      ‘Yes. She stocks some of my jewellery in her store.’

      I have Adam to thank for this, after he very nicely introduced me to Lottie Cadwalladr when she stopped to make a fuss of Fritz in the street one warm evening. She owns Ariel, an amazing and very hip independent boutique with a branch in Westbourne Grove and a branch in Spitalfields. We got to chatting, and she admired the bracelet I was wearing, and for the past couple of weeks, Ariel has stocked a small selection of my bracelets and earrings in the Westbourne Grove branch. It was a huge coup for me because, even though the orders through my website are nice and steady, it really helps to have a real-life stockist, too. Not to mention that seeing my jewellery in those glass display cases, actually being admired by shoppers the day I went to visit, has given me all sorts of dreams about maybe even managing to open a tiny store of my own one day …

      ‘Right.’ Posh James slaps his thigh; I’m not quite sure why he’s doing that for a moment (pantomime rehearsal?), until I realize he’s trying to call Fritz. ‘Here, boy! Over here!’ He looks irritated when Fritz ignores him. ‘He likes you,’ he says, in an accusing tone of voice, ‘doesn’t he?’

      ‘Oh, that’s only because I stupidly sneak him tastes of stuff when Adam and I eat together. You know, I don’t think he looks at me and sees a human woman. I think he looks at me and sees a walking, talking wodge of chicken liver pâté.’

      Posh James doesn’t laugh.

      ‘Here, boy!’ he adds, more commandingly this time, and follows it up with a whistle, which finally persuades Fritz to stop nuzzling my private areas and to jump the fence to join him again. ‘Are you going into the house, or something? I thought Adam was still away. I’m not quite sure why Lottie’s saddled us with this fur-ball for another night otherwise.’

      ‘Adam’s not back until later tonight. I’m just … er … dropping something off,’ I say, because I don’t want a complete stranger to realize I’m going into my boyfriend’s house to lie in wait for him in my undies. ‘I know he’s really grateful to you for looking after Fritz.’

      ‘The kids love him,’ Posh James says, with a shrug, as he grasps Fritz’s collar and clips on a lead. ‘Well. Good to meet you, anyway,’ he adds, in a voice that implies it wasn’t so much good as deadly dull and totally tiresome. ‘And good luck.’

      Which is an odd thing to say.

      But I won’t ask why he’s said it, partly because I don’t want to bore him any more than I already have, and partly because Fritz has started barking again, rendering any attempt at further conversation impossible.

      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