Oh my G.o.d. This is like Aladdin or something. Looking apprehensively at each other, we make our way down a lit corridor pulsing with music. We come to a flat, stainless steel door, and Lissy reaches for her key. As it opens, I quickly tug at my top and casually rearrange my hair.

'OK,' Lissy mutters. 'Don't look. Don't stare. Just be cool.'

'All right,' I mutter back, and follow Lissy into the club. As she shows her membership card to a girl at a desk, I stare studiously at her back, and as we walk through into a large, dim room, I keep my eyes fixed on the beige carpet. I'm not going to gawp at the celebrities. I'm not going to stare. I'm not going to- 'Lookout!'

Oops. I was so busy gazing at the floor, I blundered right into Lissy.

'Sorry,' I whisper. 'Where shall we sit down?'

I don't dare look around the room for a free seat, in case I see Madonna and she thinks I'm staring at her. 'Here,' says Lissy, gesturing to a wooden table with an odd little jerk of her head.

Somehow we manage to sit down, stow our bags and pick up the lists of c.o.c.ktails, all the time rigidly staring at each other.

'Have you seen anyone?' I murmur.

'No. Have you?'

'No.' I open the c.o.c.ktail menu and run my eyes down it. G.o.d this is a strain. My eyes are starting to ache. I want to look around. I want to see the place.

'Lissy,' I hiss. 'I'm going to have a look round.'

'Really?' Lissy stares at me anxiously, as though I'm Steve McQueen announcing he's going over the wire. 'Well ... OK. But be careful. Be discreet.'

'I will. I'll be fine!'

OK. Here we go. A quick, non-gawping sweep. I lean back in my chair, take a deep breath, then allow my eyes to skim swiftly round the room, taking in as much detail as quickly as I can. Low lighting ... lots of purple sofas and chairs ... a couple of guys in T-shirts ... three girls in jeans and jumpers, G.o.d, Lissy's going to freak ... a couple whispering to each other ... a guy with a beard reading Private Eye ... and that's it.

That can't be it.

This can't be right. Where's Robbie Williams? Where's Jude and Sadie? Where are all the supermodels?

'Who did you see?' hisses Lissy, still staring at the c.o.c.ktail menu.

'I'm not sure,' I whisper uncertainly. 'Maybe that guy with the beard is some famous actor?'

Casually, Lissy turns in her seat and gives him a look.

'I don't think so,' she says at last, turning back.

'Well, how about the guy in the grey T-shirt?' I say, gesturing hopefully. 'Is he in a boy band or something?'

'Mmm ... no. I don't think so.'

There's silence as we look at each other.

'Is anyone famous here?' I say at last.

'Celebrities aren't guaranteed!' says Lissy defensively.

'I know! But you'd think-'

'Hi!' A voice interrupts us and we both look round, to see two of the girls in jeans approaching our table. One of them is smiling at me nervously. 'I hope you don't mind, but my friends and I were just wondering aren't you that new one in Hollyoaks?'

Oh, for G.o.d's sake.

Anyway. I don't care. We didn't come here to see tacky celebrities taking c.o.ke and showing off. We just came to have a nice quiet drink together.

We order strawberry daiquiris and some luxury mixed nuts (4.50, for a small bowl. Don't even ask how much the drinks cost). And I have to admit, I feel a bit more relaxed now I know there's no-one famous to impress.

'How's your work going?' I ask, as I sip my drink.

'Oh, it's fine,' says Lissy with a vague shrug. 'I saw the Jersey Fraudster today.'

The Jersey Fraudster is this client of Lissy's who keeps being charged with fraud and appealing and because Lissy's so brilliant getting let out. One minute he's wearing handcuffs, the next he's dressed in hand-made suits and taking her to lunch at the Ritz.

'He tried to buy me a diamond brooch,' says Lissy, rolling her eyes. 'He had this Asprey's catalogue and he kept saying "That one's rather jolly." And I was like, "Humphrey, you're in prison! Concentrate!"' She shakes her head, takes a sip of her drink, and looks up. 'So ... what about your man?'

I know at once she means Jack, but I don't want to admit that's where my mind has leapt to, so I attempt a blank look and say, 'Who, Connor?'

'No, you dope! Your stranger on the plane. The one who knows everything about you.'

'Oh him.' I feel a flush coming to my cheeks, and look down at my embossed paper coaster.

'Yes, him! Have you managed to avoid him?'

'No,' I admit. 'He won't b.l.o.o.d.y leave me alone.'

I break off as a waiter puts two fresh strawberry daiquiris on the table. When he's gone, Lissy gives me a close look.

'Emma, do you fancy this guy?'

'No, of course I don't fancy him,' I say hotly. 'He just ... disconcerts me, that's all. It's a completely natural reaction. You'd be the same. Anyway, it's fine. I only have to get through until Friday. Then he'll be gone.'

'And then you'll be moving in with Connor.' Lissy takes a sip of her daiquiri and leans forward. 'You know, I reckon he's going to ask you to marry him!'

I feel a tiny lurch in my stomach, which is probably just my drink going down or something.

'You're so lucky,' says Lissy wistfully. 'You know, he put up those shelves in my room the other day without even asking! How many men would do that?'

'I know. He's just ... great.' There's a pause, and I start to shred my paper coaster into little bits. 'I suppose the only tiny little thing would be that it's not that romantic any more.'

'You can't expect it to be romantic for ever,' says Lissy. 'Things change. It's natural to become a bit more steady.'

'Oh, I know that!' I say. 'We're two mature, sensible people, and we're having a loving, steady relationship! Which, you know, is just what I want out of life. Except ...' I clear my throat awkwardly. 'We don't have s.e.x that often any more ...'

'That's a common problem in long-term relationships,' says Lissy knowledgeably. 'You need to spice it up.'

'With what?'

'Have you tried handcuffs?'

'No! Have you?' I stare at Lissy, riveted.

'A long time ago,' she says with a dismissive shrug. 'They weren't all that ... Um ... why not try doing it somewhere different. Try doing it at work!'

At work! Now, that's a good idea. Lissy is so clever.

'OK!'I say. 'I'll try that!'

I reach for my bag, get out a pen and write '' on my hand, next to where I've written 'nb: darling'.

Suddenly I'm filled with fresh enthusiasm. This is a brilliant plan. I'll s.h.a.g Connor at work tomorrow, and it will be the best s.e.x we've ever had, and the sparkle will come back, and we'll be madly in love again. Easy. And that will show Jack Harper.

No. This is nothing to do with Jack Harper. I don't know why that slipped out.

There's only one tiny hitch to my scheme. Which is that it's not quite as easy to s.h.a.g your boyfriend at work as you'd think. I hadn't quite appreciated before how open everything is in our office. And how many gla.s.s part.i.tions there are. And how many people there are, walking around all the time.

By eleven o'clock the next morning I still haven't managed to put a game plan together. I think I'd kind of pictured doing it behind a pot plant somewhere. But now I actually look at them, pot plants are tiny! And all frondy. There's no way Connor and I would be able to hide behind one, let alone risk any ... movement.

We can't do it in the loos. The girls' loos always have people in there, gossiping and putting on their makeup, and the men's loos ... yuck. No way.

We can't do it in Connor's office because the walls are completely made of gla.s.s and there aren't any blinds or anything. Plus people are always coming in and out of it to get stuff out of his filing cabinet.

Oh, this is ridiculous. People having affairs must have s.e.x at the office all the time. Is there some special secret s.h.a.gging room I don't know about?

I can't email Connor and ask for suggestions, because it's crucial that I surprise him. The shock element will be a huge turn-on and make it really sizzling hot and romantic. Plus there's a tiny risk that if I wrarn him he'll go all corporate on me and insist we take an hour's unpaid leave for it, or something.

I'm just wondering whether we could creep out onto the fire escape, when Nick comes out of Paul's office saying something about margins.

My head jerks up, and I feel a twinge of apprehension. There's something I've been trying to pluck up courage to say to him since that big meeting yesterday.

'Hey Nick,' I say as he walks by my desk. 'Panther Bars are your product, aren't they?'

'If you can call them a product,' he says, rolling his eyes.

'Are they going to axe them?'

'More than likely.'

'Well, listen,' I say quickly. 'Can I have a tiny bit of the marketing budget to put a coupon ad in a magazine?' Nick puts his hands on his hips and stares at me.

'Do what?'

'Put in an ad. It won't be very expensive, I promise. No-one will even notice.'

'Where?'

'Bowling Monthly,' I say, flushing slightly. 'My grandpa gets it.'

'Bowling what?'

'Please! Look, you don't have to do anything. I'll sort it all out. It'll be a drop in the ocean compared to all the other ads you've run.' I stare at him entreatingly. 'Please ... please ...'

'Oh all right!' he says impatiently. 'It's a dead duck, anyway.'

'Thanks!' I beam at him, then as he walks off, reach for the phone and dial Grandpa's number.

'Hi Grandpa!' I say as his answermachine beeps. 'I'm putting a money-off coupon ad for Panther Bars in Bowling Monthly. So tell all your friends! You can stock up cheaply. I'll see you soon, OK?'

'Emma?' Grandpa's voice suddenly booms into my ear. 'I'm here! Just screening.'

'Screening?' I echo, trying not to sound too surprised. Grandpa screens?

'It's my new hobby. Have you not heard of it? You listen to your friends leaving messages and laugh at them. Most amusing. Now Emma, I was meaning to ring you. I saw a very alarming piece on the news yesterday, about muggings in central London.'

Not this again.

'Grandpa-'

'Promise me you don't take London transport, Emma.'

'I er ... promise,' I say, crossing my fingers. 'Grandpa, I have to go, really. But I'll call again soon. Love you.'

'Love you too, darling girl.'

As I put the phone down I feel a tiny glow of satisfaction. That's one thing done.

But what about Connor?

'I'll just have to go and fish it out of the archives,' Caroline is saying across the office, and my head pops up.

The archive room. Of course. Of course! No-one goes to the archive room unless they absolutely have to. It's way down in the bas.e.m.e.nt, and it's all dark with no windows and loads of old books and magazines, and you end up grovelling on the floor to get what you want.

It's perfect.

'I'll go,' I say, trying to sound nonchalant. 'If you like. What do you have to find?'

'Would you?' says Caroline gratefully. 'Thanks, Emma. It's an old ad in some defunct magazine. This is the reference ...' She hands me a piece of paper and I take it, feeling a thrill of excitement. As she walks away, I demurely pick up my phone and dial Connor's number.

'Hey Connor,' I say in a low, husky voice. 'Meet me in the archive room. I've got something I want to show you.'

'What?'

'Just ... be there,' I say, feeling like Sharon Stone.

Ha! Office s.h.a.g here I come!

I hurry down the corridor as quickly as I can, but as I pa.s.s Admin I'm accosted by Wendy Smith, who wants to know if I'd like to play in the netball team. So I don't actually get to the bas.e.m.e.nt for a few minutes, and when I open the door, Connor is standing there, looking at his watch.