Emmaprovement Continues...

"I am so disappointed in you", my friend Amy emails from Toronto. Attached to her email is an article about Philip Windsor's recent engagement.

My heart sinks. All this focus on the ginger love child I planned to have with Prince Harry was just a pipe dream. But, all this time, the royal I should have been hunting down was right there. Dating a fricken' Canadian Catholic girl.

For the next few days, I actually read the newspaper, instead of just the fashion supplements, searching for more information. The fact that her ring is estimated to be worth £80,000 hurts, but what's worse is the idea that he may give up his place in line for the throne for her. My last date seemed pissy when he relinquished his bar stool for me.

Days later, when I'm still sulking, Taryn offers to take me to dinner. I email our friend Julie to see if she's free.

"Sorry," Julie emails back, "I'm saving money. I can't afford it."

I'm rendered speechless. No one SAVES money in London; it's impossible. No, you extend your overdraft, you get a new credit card, or, failing that, organise a 'living it large' loan (correction: 'living it medium') under the guise that you need a new car. When the bills come, you shove them somewhere dark.

"Say: I can't afford that", commands Taryn over dinner at Nobu that night. But I can't. Neither can she. My female friends talk about everything but money. Unless, of course, it's to estimate the salary/earning potential of our recently married ex-boyfriends (Alex Garden: seriously, I'm a fool).

It just seems crass to discuss our finances. Sure, I've slept in beds with my friends and showered with them and know intimate details about their boyfriends' genitalia, but - at gunpoint, even - I wouldn't be able to tell you what any of them made for a living.

And I honestly believe I can afford anything - soft liposuction, a summer house in France, a private jet - I just have to juggle some things around. You know: not go out for dinner for a month, avoid sample sales, cool it with the black cab addiction.

Truthfully, I'm good with money. My parents have instilled a total fear of credit card debt, and my fabulous lifestyle is actually exceptionally cheap, aided as it is by working in media and therefore being able to party every night for free.

But Julie won't let up about the fact we need to start planning. She sends me a copy of her new bible 'Love is not Enough, the Smart Woman's Guide to Making (& Keeping) Money'.

The title alone makes me shudder. Three pages in, author Merryn Somerset Webb, explains how most young women -even the high earners - aren't preparing for the future. They are simply living paycheck to paycheck with the idea that, eventually, Prince Charming will show up and buy the country house, pay the staff bills and generally keep them in nice shoes. A cold chill runs through me. Wait, you mean, he isn't?

Now, I'd love to tell you how Love is Not Enough was fantastic, and that my finances are now all in order, and that I've got a ISA (whatever that is) and money put away for retirement, and am generally looking forward to an independent financial future. But that would be a lie.

I threw the book across the room. Love, seemingly, is enough. For me.