Talking of men and my thirty-something friend...

Juliette is petite with light eyes, mousey hair and a soft figure. I diagnosed her as Celia Birtwell redivivus on sight. I want my new friend to scavenge for Ossie originals with me at Relik, but she has sold her first home to fund a second career at the bar. She has neither time nor money for such dispositions. No matter, in truth I’m not much of a vintage girl. She finds a delicate Diane von Furstenberg at the Loft in Covent Garden. I inspect it with my best Ossie eyes and pronounce it fabulous. Or groovy, as the gaze may see. We discuss shoes and a coat and decide the entire ensemble will be fabulous. I do some people-watching out the front window while Juliette makes her well reasoned purchase. I make very few of these myself but am always ready to assure less fashion-obsessed friends that their choices are, well, fabulous. I tend to speak in emphatic adjectives and ‘fabulous’ usually gets relieved, lash-batting smiles.

Juliette’s birthday is on Friday. She will wear the ensemble. She will spend an ‘extortionate’ amount having her hair toned the blonde side of mousey. Her parents have paid for a spa day on Thursday. She’s far from an ugly duckling but she will arrive at her party a beautifully preened swan. Of course, there’s a guy. No woman as devoted to coursework as Juliette would take two days off for pre-party prep otherwise. Sam is a hedge fund manager, not a bad man to bank on in any respect. He lives not far from me. A quick Google shows he’s a rising star at his rather successful firm. Good prospects, nice location. Well of course I searched him. Stop looking at me like that! She’s my friend. He doesn’t make enough to pique my interest anyway, but whenever she mentions his name my tummy sinks so I check him out. My tummy fancies it knows a lot about men. I don’t eat very much. She mentions him too much.

On Tuesday we go to the Chelsea Cinema to see Becoming Jane, which I adore. Afterwards, I spend several minutes fantasising about elegant empire line dresses which highlight my skinny arms and beautiful breasts. They always take their time turning up the lights at that theatre. I spend several more minutes doubling and then trebling over the extra-long belt on my new PINKO trench. I’m certain the new fat-girl friendly accoutrement has something to do with Mariah Carey being their new spokes model. The belt is perfect for her ever-expanding waistline, a bit time-consuming for those of us who eschew carbs. It looks muy elegante anyway and Juliette’s as patient as she is Parisian pretty in pea coat and ballet pumps.

I walk her to Sloane Square station. She tells me about the treatments she’ll have at the spa. She tells me how well the ensemble looks assembled. She tells me Sam sent several flirtatious text messages and one disappointing one since last we spoke. He is going to Swizerland on Friday and won’t be coming to the party after all. He put smiley faces in the texts though. Smiley faces, Belle. My phone beeps with a message from Daddy’s secretary. She’s three years older than me and they’re..in Switzerland. I mean her and my father, not her and Sam. If I were my first year Ionesco lecturer I would exclaim ‘Isn’t that absurd?’ at this point. As I’m not, I flip my mobile shut and drop it back in my Dior baguette. I don’t mention this as some clunky hint that, later in the week and this story, Sam will cheat on Juliette with a secretary closer to my age than her’s. I’m not divulging that my father is sleeping with his secretary. I’m not saying these men are faithful, either, but you already read too much Tatler drama for your own good, darling.

We continue down King’s road. She repeats, for the third time, five stories about Sam which she told me first at the Kylie V&A exhibition and then at 'Face of Fashion' at the NPG. I value my ability to multi-think. I focus on a pretty dress in the window of Hugo Boss, which becomes more attractive as we draw closer to the store. My legs would look amazing in that and, God; I can’t wait for the summer. Couldn’t I make some excuse to hop the Eurostar to Paris soon? It’s really too cold to get away with that floaty fabric in March London and by June London I’ll be so over the look. We clasp elbows at the station and cheek-cheek (I’ m not an inattentive friend, that dress distraction lasted 30 seconds max., I promise). I make the short walk home and Google billetes and hotels.

I also think about thirty-something men and how they’re best suited to thirty something women. Not that they can’t be of great practical benefit to a girl in her twenties. Or a woman...or a female who changes her mind about which she is a lot. The most obvious one has “m” in front of it and “y” after. Even if she doesn’t need his money, if she’s traditional he needs enough for them both and plenty more. This is not in keeping with the Austen spirit of the evening but London is London. Everyone here is obsessed with money. If she has it in spades he needs it for hearts, and then some. Thirty-something men also have Life Experience ( see Sex Experience, Travel Experience, Which Shoes Work With That Suit Experience). This is frequently fascinating to me, depending on the man. I’m aware it can be used against me. There be wisdom in them there wrinkles. They also harbour thinly disguised insecurities about their aging bodies. I don’t want to stroke these better while I have none myself. In the charming words of Alyssa Milano, I have my thirties to freak about that. I’ll want a thirty-something man to do that with me.

So I clearly don’t want to fish in Juliette’s pond. Even if the fish are, by majority, more likely to be able to afford to keep up with me. Are there no twenty-something trust fund boys in this damn postcode? I’m sooo not going to meet any at Juliette’s party…but who cares? I love new girlfriends and she’s my favourite London girl at the moment. I’m going to get her something gorgeous tomorrow, then get my nails done…maybe survey Mrs. Burstein’s delectable racks for a while. Liberty and and Harvey Nic's are always out of size 24 Superfines and I've heard I may find the wash I'm after at Browns Focus.