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where he was least wanted.
    At least by Jess. How he had materialised on her side of the room so damn quickly she had no idea. ‘Phil,’ she said.
    ‘Jess,’ said Phil. ‘I don’t think I’ve met your gorgeous friend.’
    ‘Zoë, this is Phil – works with me. Phil, this is Zoë – an old friend.’
    ‘No, not old, not even ripe, just … right.’
    Why people fell for Phil’s cringe-making lines amazed Jess, but she knew that Zoë at least would resist him. She’d told Zoë about him before.
    ‘So, back to your previous topic. Who’s promiscuous?’
    Jess pretended to have forgotten. ‘Who was it you were talking about, Zoë? There are so many possibilities around here.’
    Zoë scrutinised the surrounding crowd. ‘Yeah, it’s difficult to recall – tell you what though, I’m sure another drink would help me remember.’
    ‘Vodka?’ Phil asked.
    Zoë nodded.
    ‘And one for Jess too,’ Zoë called as he turned to go.
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘Why did you do that?’ said Jess. ‘Now he’ll come back and I’ll have to be polite.’
    ‘Why start now? Besides, he’s seriously hot. I don’t understand why you’ve never mentioned that.’ Zoë admired the view of Phil departing. ‘I’m beginning to worry about you, Jess. You do have a libido, don’t you, darling? You’re not depressed, are you?’
    ‘I’m not depressed and of course I do, not that it’s anyone else’s business. I just don’t let it run my life.’ Jess was well aware of Phil’s appeal, which relied on charisma more than chiselled features; his obviously once broken nose, slightly crooked teeth and scar under his left eye were not a turn-off.
    But Zoë didn’t have to work with him and the way Phil set about locating their drinks said all a person needed to know about him. One waiter was only a few steps away, lurking beside the head of the country’s largest supermarket chain – the most powerful person in publishing, notwithstanding the fact that her chain sold more cucumbers in a day than books in a year; next to her was an ineffectual but enthusiastic marketing manager. Another waiter stood at the right hand of the literary editor of a national newspaper, and a third loitered near the gaggle of publicists, as he had been all evening. Phil made his way towards the third waiter, the short skirts and the long legs.

    ‘Life isn’t all about screwing, anyway.’
    ‘Only people who aren’t doing it say that,’ said Zoë, predictably.
    ‘So how do you know that I don’t have a secret lover?’ Jess asked.
    ‘Oh, I’d know. For a start, you wouldn’t be obsessing about your project, you’d be asking me for tips about where to get fabulous lingerie.’
    ‘Who wears lingerie anyway?’
    ‘I’m not quite sure how to answer that question.’ Zoë opened her eyes wide, shocked.
    ‘Oh, come on, your gear’s either on or it’s off. No one wants to strut around in those uncomfortable lace g-strings.’
    ‘Darling, g-strings are so over. It’s all about French knickers now.’
    ‘What about commando?’
    ‘You don’t! It’s trashy, trashy, trashy. Haven’t you seen all those tabloid pictures of celebs flashing their girlie bits as they’re falling out of taxis or tumbling down nightclub stairs?’
    As she said this, Eve and Chris emerged from their dark corner.
    ‘Time to go, I think,’ Eve was saying. ‘I did promise I’d join Ilona’s little dinner, but I think it would be more fun not to.’ She gave Chris’s arm yet another squeeze, and didn’t let go. His bewildered expression seemed to encourage her as she guided him towards the door.
    ‘Oh fuck.’ Jess remembered that she’d planned to take Eve’s picture, at least a picture of what she was wearing. Sketching was all very well but it wasn’t the same, just as the pictures she’d been sent of the clothes without their owner weren’t the same. It was important to know how Eve wore them.
    Quickly, Jess scrabbled around in her bag, pulled out her