Chapter 1

      ‘So, how tall do you want this dream man to be then, Chrissie?’ Kate scanned down the form on the computer screen, her face blank with concentration.

      ‘You can specify height as well? Jesus,’ said Bill, who’d been helping fill in Chrissie’s profile. He popped the top on another can of Bud. ‘And there’s you girls always telling us that size doesn’t matter.’

      He said it in a sly, sarky way, which made Chrissie and Kate both turn round to give him a withering look. Grinning, he held up his hands in surrender, while Kate’s attention moved back to the screen.

      ‘Okay, so what have we got here? 5′ to 5′5″, 5′6 to 5′8″, 5′9″ to 6′00″,’ Kate read, ‘small, medium or large. Mr Right comes in several handy sizes apparently.’

      ‘Not in my experience he doesn’t,’ said Chrissie bitterly. She was half way through her second large glass of Archers and orange juice, the glow from the screen picking out cheekbones that only appeared when she was seriously depressed. Leaning over Kate’s shoulder, she peered myopically at the what are you looking for wish list. ‘Or over 6′4″? Good God no, I’d have to take a stepladder out with me every time I wanted a snog.’

      ‘Up to about 6′?’ suggested Kate.

      Chrissie nodded.

      ‘How about hair?’

      ‘I’m getting bored with this,’ whined Bill. ‘It’s Friday, end of the week. I want to – to …’

      They all looked at him.

      ‘What?’ snapped Chrissie. ‘Cut loose? Get lucky? Get laid? What did happen to What’s-her-name anyway?’

      ‘Oh, meow. Did you ever get that job in personnel?’ Bill growled right back.

      ‘No, I’m still flogging frocks; they decided I wasn’t fit to be let loose on real people.’

      ‘Hair,’ Kate said, attempting to whip them in.

      ‘Is that a straight choice between without or without?’ asked Joe, Kate’s husband, who had been watching the three of them. He ran his hand back over a crew cut that couldn’t quite disguise the fact he hadn’t got an awful lot of hair left.

      Joe had been idly picking out a riff on the guitar in his lap, making out he wasn’t at all interested in what was going on. Since Kate first knew him Joe had constantly doodled with music; living with Joe was like having your very own incidental music, a soundtrack to all life’s little ups and downs.

      ‘What is that?’ said Bill, taking a pull on the beer. ‘Fleetwood?’

      Joe shook his head. ‘Unfortunately not. It’s a jingle for a margarine commercial that I’ve been working