I mean, how romantic is that? I have that picture in my head a lot—me being like Audrey Hepburn, floating around in pretty dresses, and David being like Gregory Peck, all manly and hard but warm in the center.

Of course we haven’t actually been to Rome yet—David’s always really busy with work and stuff—but we’re going to go. Definitely. I actually bought some plane tickets to Rome about a year ago, as a surprise. I’d arranged with David’s PA for him to have a Friday off and I was going to turn up at his office on Thursday evening and whisk him off for a long weekend. But then on the Monday before there was a huge crisis at work and he had to go to New York on short notice. I didn’t actually tell him about the tickets to Rome because I didn’t want him to feel bad. Still, there’s always this year. David has promised me that he’s going to take a proper holiday this year, so nothing’s going to stop us.

I lean my head on David’s shoulder as the film begins. Already I’m a European princess and he’s my sexy bit of rough.

Except that David isn’t quite Gregory Peck, if you know what I mean. He is solid, dependable, respectable, and generous. He’s also an accountant—and I can’t imagine Gregory Peck spending hours looking at boring numbers, can you? Actually, David’s what you call a forensic accountant, which is perhaps a little bit nearer Gregory Peck territory. When he told me, I thought he meant he was going to be working for Scotland Yard, but he told me it isn’tthat sort of forensic. But it does sound better than numbers crunching; forensic accountants trace dodgy dealings and stuff. Like once he was working on the divorce settlement case of some really rich businessman, and his job was to track down the numerous offshore bank accounts where the husband had put all his money so he didn’t have to give any of it to his wife. And another time he was investigating this drug ring that had bought up a whole load of property in London. Last year his firm even started working for the Fraud Squad, and now he gets to work with the police and secret intelligence and people like that. But that’s about as much as I know. Somehow David makes exciting things like breaking drug rings sound really quite boring—lots of detailed investigations into balance sheets, and no breaking down doors and shouting “Hold it right there.” I guess he’s still an accountant; he just happens to be an accountant who works for the Fraud Squad and that’s just not the same, is it? Not that there’s anything wrong with being an accountant or anything, but they don’t tend to be cool and strong, silent types. Come to think of it, they don’t usually get invited to particularly good parties either. Unless you count the Accountancy Age Awards, that is, and I don’t.

Mike, on the other hand, is a bit nearer the mark. He never really had a job, as such, but he is a really good DJ and record promoter (I’ve only heard him DJ once and he was a bit drunk, but he told me about how he could have been more famous than Pete Tong if he’d wanted to), and he’s really well connected and stuff. Like, if you want to go to a gig, he can always get guest-list passes. And whenever you read an article on some new model or musician or actress, Mike always knows them. At least he did two years ago, but I can’t imagine he’s changed that much.

Sorry, I was talking about David, wasn’t I. Okay, so David is really nice. He’s “take home and meet the parents” nice. He earns quite a lot of money I think—we always go to nice restaurants and he never lets me pay unless we go to Pizza Express. He’s also got a really nice flat in Putney, on the river.

I first met him at a dinner party that my old school friend Candida had “thrown.” Candy is not like most of my friends—she has “chums” named Rupert or Julian and she has “soirees” instead of parties. Anyway, I was at a loose end and Candy thought a dinner party might be fun, so I dutifully bought a cheap bottle of wine, put on some lippy, and took the Tube to her Notting Hill flat.

I love going to Candy’s flat, not that I’ve been there for ages; I kind of fell out of touch with Candy a bit before I met David again. To be honest, we never had that much in common; we used to live near each other when I was younger and we kind of stayed in touch. But her flat is gorgeous—stucco-fronted, with a huge garden that’s shared with the other houses in her street.

And it’s huge: three bedrooms, a sitting room, and a separate dining room. I mean who has room for a dining room when they live in London? Not me, certainly. Which is probably why I don’t have dinner parties very often—or ever, actually.

As soon as I got to Candy’s I realized I’d made a huge mistake. She was all dressed up in this incredible backless number, and seemed to have half forgotten that she’d invited me when I arrived. And then, after she’d introduced me to all her boarding school “chums” and I was just beginning to relax, Bridget and Ralf, one of the couples there, announced that they had just done a wine tasting course at Christie’s and were going to deliver a verdict on all the wines on the table. Thinking that my ?2.99 Chateau de somewhere in Eastern Europe would not hold its own against the expensive-looking French wine already out, I made my way to the kitchen to hide my wine at the very back of the fridge, figuring that no one cares what wine tastes like when you’re on the eighth bottle. Except that someone stopped me before I could get there.

A very good-looking guy dressed in black and in Prada trainers grabbed my hand and called out really loudly “Candy, one of your guests is trying to sneak her wine out.” I turned a horrible puce color. I couldn’t remember his name even though we’d been introduced about five minutes ago, but decided I hated him already.

“Needs cooling,” I muttered, trying to get past him.

“Rubbish,” he said in his public school tones, prising the wine from my hand. “I think it’s already cold enough in Bulgaria, isn’t it?”

He was laughing and I smiled thinly. Everyone in the room had stopped talking at this point and was looking awkwardly at me, not quite sure what to say. And then someone came to my defense. A rather sweet-looking bloke wearing chinos with a shirt tucked in walked over.

“Bulgaria has actually won some major prizes for its wine-making recently,” he said seriously.

“And 1999 was a particularly good year in some regions.”

I smiled gratefully and took my bottle back from the Prada-wearing bastard who had mortified me in front of people I’d never met before. He laughed again and wandered off toward two girls who immediately kissed him and laughed loudly at everything he said. I realized that the guy in chinos was still standing next to me. “I’m David,” he said. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

Of course, it took another two and a half years before I started seeing David. That night I ended up sleeping with the guy who was rude about my wine. He was called Mike and we left halfway through the meal because his hand was inching under my skirt and I couldn’t believe that someone so gorgeous was interested in me.

David was very good about it. I bumped into him about six months after Mike left, and he asked me out to dinner. And then he asked me out again. He was so sweet! He called when he said he would. And now he’s helping me put my curtains up. I mean, how nice is that?

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It’s Monday morning and I’m ten minutes late for work—because the stupid ticket machine at Shepherds Bush Tube Station refused to take my ten-pound note and not because I couldn’t get out of bed this morning. I practice my excuses as I climb the escalator at Bond Street station—

very toning for the bottom and thighs. (I have given up my gym membership since I read somewhere that if you always take the stairs and walk everywhere, you could do a two-hour workout every day without knowing it.)

I buy a cappuccino to make Monday morning a bit more bearable, and then decide to get Nigel one, too, working on the same principle. It doesn’t seem to work. As I place the coffee on his desk, he looks up and I can see that his cheeks are slightly pink.

Nigel is my boss. He gets quite stressed when people are late, or don’t do things in an orderly fashion. I know this because once he nearly cried when I messed up his desk a bit by accident. I was doing some work on one of his projects while he was away, and I’m not the most organized person if I’m completely honest. I mean, neat piles on desks—what’s that all about? I like everything where I can see it, and if that means that every so often bits of paper get lost, well, that’s hardly my fault, is it? When Nigel got back and realized I’d completely decimated his filing system, he started off angry, but then I swear I saw a tear in his eye. I’ve been trying really hard to be tidy ever since.

Nigel and I work in publishing. Usually, when I tell people what I do, I leave it at that, because then it sounds like I could be working with literary geniuses and brilliant novels. But you may as well know the truth. I work at Leary Publishing, and we produce loose-leaf handbooks and CD-ROMs for accountants. Lawyers, too, sometimes. I research new product launches and spend time talking to accountants about their business needs. So really, David and I are made for each other.

Recently, though, things have been looking up a bit. To start with, we’ve got a new divisional director, Guy Jackson, who keeps calling Nigel into meetings, which means he isn’t breathing down my neck.

The other thing I have discovered to my amazement is that if you know a little bit about what you’re working on, it’s actually easier. It’s not like I’ve been swotting up or anything, but we’ve kind of got this Sunday-morning ritual going where David brings me breakfast in bed and then tries to read the business section of theTelegraph . I ask him stupid questions about the headlines just to get his attention, and he explains each story in detail, demonstrating each point by kissing or prodding my stomach as I giggle and snuggle into his chest. This generally lasts for about ten minutes and then the newspaper gets chucked to the floor and we shag each other’s brains out, spraying crumbs all over the bed linen.