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serious cleavage no matter how under-endowed you were and was marginally preferable to the one that inflated with – no joke – a little pump. That shopping trip was quite an eye-opener. Chicken fillets, super-boost, balconies – who knew that bra designers needed degrees in mechanical engineering these days.
    ‘When are you going to get ready, Olivia?’ asked Emily, hopping up and down outside my bedroom door. Already made-up, she looked gorgeous as always – no wonder Daniel was going out with her – and was halfway through straightening her white-blonde hair. Natural, of course, she had Scandinavian ancestors. If mine had been of a Nordic persuasion you could bet they’d have been great, hairy Vikings, not flaxen-haired princesses.
    ‘Sorry, on the phone to Mum.’
    Emily shrugged. ‘We need to leave in an hour and a half. Thought you wanted a bath.’
    No chance of delaying tactics with her around. She was itching to get going. Obviously she had all her questions worked out. Me, I was still dithering over my opening lines.
    Was there any way of getting out of this evening? Perhaps I could do myself an injury with those bra straps. An evening in A & E had appeal. I’ve watched
Casualty
and
Holby City
. Hospitals are teeming with handsome specimens striding the wards in pristine white coats – although I’ve often wondered why in their profession they never seem to come into contact with any bodily fluids, like blood or vomit.
    Maybe a quick trip to Guy’s was a viable alternative to speed-dating, although knowing my luck, Emily would pick up Doctor Hunk while he was untangling the straps from around my windpipe. How could he fail to be impressed by her fortitude in the face of her flatmate’s total incompetence?
    Turning on the taps in the sunlit bathroom, I perched on the edge of my beloved, recently installed, double-ended bath. Paying the mortgage didn’t leave much left over for home improvements but the bath had been a priority.
    What the hell was I going to ask? Three minutes per date. Do you come here often? Hardly bowling-over material.
    ‘Can I just grab my deodorant?’ asked Emily, sailing in.
    ‘Mmm. What questions are you going to ask? I’m stuck.’
    ‘Ask who?’ She looked blank.
    ‘The dates, tonight.’
    ‘You think too much. I thought I’d leave it up them. They’re the ones who’ve got to impress me.’
    Sometimes I had to admire her attitude. Then again, with the amount of cleavage she was showing, none of her dates would be able to string a sentence together. Even with the new bra, I wouldn’t have that advantage.
    Despite racking my brains for three whole days, no clever questions had come to mind. My grey cells were threatening to go into meltdown. In desperation earlier I’d even Googled ‘Good questions + speed-date’. No help at all. The advice fell into two camps; ‘Avoid talking about films’ or ‘Ask your date about their favourite film.’ There was, however, universal agreement that you shouldn’t ‘Ask if they want babies?’ As if!
    Perhaps questions would just pop into my head as I met each date. I tried to imagine what they might be like.
    Lying back in the warm bath, two successful candidates popped into my head, leaving me with the delicious dilemma of which to keep. One was a famous architect, who wore Paul Smith suits and wined and dined me in all the best places in London.
    Unfortunately my imagination had a practical streak, which insisted anyone that successful – he’d just designed the equivalent of the Gherkin in New York – would also be horribly busy at work and bound to be unreliable.
    Alternatively there was the airline pilot who was proving irresistible. Much more laid-back with a wicked sense of humour, he wore nice crisp shirts that exposed just a smattering of blond hairs. His faded jeans encased long lean legs and he had lovely broad shoulders with just a hint of well-defined muscles – he was quite a sexy package. Although I could