A Night In With Marilyn Monroe. Lucy Holliday

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.

      ‘Hmm,’ Nora replies. ‘So. A nice romantic evening, you said.’

      ‘Yes.’ I carry on inching the Ribbony Elasticky Thing up over my none-too-perfect stomach. God, I wish I hadn’t put this half-stone back on. ‘At least, I hope so. I mean, I’m here at his house, and I’m going to surprise him when he gets in.’

      ‘Surprise him?’ She sounds confused. ‘Like a sort of … sex ambush?’

      ‘No! It’s not a sex ambush! God, Nora, you make it sound like I’m planning to jump out of the wardrobe, knock him out with a tranquillizer dart, manacle him to the radiator and have my wicked way with him for the next three nights.’

      There’s a short silence.

      ‘That does sound,’ Nora says, after a moment, ‘worryingly detailed …’

      ‘OK, but it wouldn’t be totally incomprehensible if I were to do something of the sort,’ I say, finally – finally! – managing to edge the Ribbony Elasticky Thing up over my tummy before jiggling the shoulder straps into position. ‘I told you on the plane last night. Things are really perfect between us. We just need to work on … the sex part.’

      ‘Lib, I do worry a bit when you start using words like perfect. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Adam does sound lovely. But you know you have a tendency to … well, romanticize things.’

      ‘I admit, I might have had that tendency in the past, but not this time. When you meet him, you’ll see.’ Now that the Ribbony Elasticky Thing is safely (well, safely-ish) on, I can start the complicated process of arranging the lengths of ribbon and elastic so that they cover the parts they’re meant to cover. ‘He’s steady. Dependable. Reliable …’

      ‘Well, all right, there’s no need to make him sound like the sort of thing my dad might use for weatherproofing his patio furniture.’

      ‘… Mature,’ I continue. ‘Well-rounded.’

      ‘OK, now you’re making him sound like one of those mystery cheeses you and Olly are always bleating on about.’

      ‘My point is that I really, truly think this could be it. Adam could be it. I mean, he brought me espresso and yogurt-covered raisins before my big meeting this morning! All the