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hair’s too greasy.’
    Josh and Lucy gave up introducing me to their friends a long time ago, but men never seemed to be much of a priority after Martin.
    Not that I relished spending the rest of my life by myself, but I wasn’t, not with Si, not with Josh and Lucy.
    Damn. Si will be here in fifteen minutes and the place looks like a tip. As you would expect, Si’s flat, despite being in the less than salubrious area of Kilburn, is immaculate. Not particularly smart, I grant you, but only because Si’s work is so irregular he can’t afford to re-create the room sets he drools over in Wallpaper magazine.
    Mine, on the other hand, is a mess. The flat itself is in a mansion block, and therefore lovely and large, but interiors have never been quite my thing, and the fact that most of the furniture was passed on by elderly relatives or well-meaning friends has never particularly bothered me.
    It bothers Si, though. Every time he comes over he sits on the sofa, growing more and more fidgety, before getting up and re-arranging . He pulls books off the bookshelf and arranges them in neat little piles on the coffee table, together with whatever bowls he can find.
    He plumps up cushions and rummages around in my wardrobe for old scarves, which he drapes over furniture. Si’s a big believer in draping, although he claims he hates it and is resorting to desperate measures to hide the ‘hideous pieces of crap’. He collects mugs that are gathering mould, and, shooting me filthy looks, takes them into the kitchen, stands them in the sink and covers them in hot, soapy water.
    He has been known to get the vacuum out of the cupboard and do the entire flat, but, as he says, hoovering has never been his favourite job. Give him a pair of rubber gloves and a can of Pledge, however, and he is as happy as anything.
    I run around the living room, gathering papers, videos, books, and stack them in a precarious pile next to the sofa, well out of Si’s view. The mugs are literally thrown into the sink, and then I remember the bed and rush in to shake out the duvet.
    ‘Only real sluts don’t make their bed,’ Si said one day, after which point I have tried to remember to make it. At least when he’s coming over.
    At seven thirty on the dot the doorbell rings. I haven’t had time for a bath, and I run to the door tugging a cream cardigan over my head because I can’t be bothered to undo the buttons.
    ‘Are my eyes deceiving me? Could that be… cream?’ says Si. ‘That’s adventurous. What happened to basic black? I don’t think I’ve seen you in a colour for years.’
    ‘It’s not a colour,’ I say grumpily. ‘It’s cream . Anyway, would you like to come in for two seconds to see how tidy I am?’
    Si pops his head round the living room door and marches straight over to the side of the sofa. The bit that’s supposed to be hidden from view. One tap of his toe and the pile is once again all over the floor.
    ‘Cath, my love, did you think my instincts would have failed me? Did you think, perhaps, that they had gone absent without leave? Or perhaps you think I’m rather stupid…’
    ‘All right, all right. Sorry. But you have to admit it looks okay.’
    ‘No,’ Si says slowly. ‘Although relatively speaking I suppose I’ll have to concede it does.’ He checks his watch. ‘Josh said quarter to. Shall we wander over?’
    I nod and grab my coat, turning to see Si watching me.
    ‘Sweets,’ he says. ‘You really should make more of an effort. Put on just a tiny bit of make-up on this gorgeous spring evening. What if Mr Perfect turns up?’
    ‘I don’t need Mr Perfect,’ I say, closing the door behind us and tucking my arm cosily into Si’s. ‘I already have you.’

Chapter four
    Josh comes to the door with a tea-towel in one hand and Max in the other, looking, it has to be said, extremely cute in his little striped pyjamas. That is if you didn’t know better.
    Even Josh looks rather cute, come to that, with his