Agent Provocateur

1st May 2006

If there's one night of your life that you might reasonably expect to get laid, then it's your wedding night. Not that it always works out that way. Avid readers of journalist Liz Jones' brutally frank diary of her crumbling marriage (as serialised by You magazine) might agree there's no greater indignity forced on the poor woman by her caddish, young, indolent husband (not the "gift" flowers bought with her own credit card, nor the serial infidelities) than the fact that he doesn't even have the courtesy to have sex with her after their nuptials.

Poor Ms Jones spent tens of thousands of pounds on the lavish bash but her husband stayed up drinking with mates and left her alone in the honeymoon suite. Maybe the outcome would've been different had Agent Provocateur launched their new bridal range in time to save lonesome Ms Jones. The eye-popping collection of saucy yet sophisticated bras, basques, suspenders and other bridegroom-pleasing bits is guaranteed to get a girl unwrapped along with her wedding presents. Three parts mademoiselle to two parts minx, this is the kind of lingerie that puts on a coy pretence of virginal purity while all the time whispering, "Ravish me, ravish me!" Alas there was nothing of this calibre around when I got married ten years ago. Instead there were endless cream polyester satin basques with equally loathsome shiny knickers - and the obligatory blue garter belt. I made do with a cream lace Ultra-bra and some vintage cami-knickers, which at least produced the exaggerated bosom I needed for my1950s gown (£40 from the Red Cross shop in Cambridge). Did I get lucky? Well, in a manner of speaking. Showing the exquisite timing customary on immaculately-planned occasions my period arrived a week early, just as I had peeled off my ivory gown in favour of a long 1930s' evening dress for the dancing. I still sweat when I think what a close call it was not to have had a Sicilian-style bloodbath at the altar. When my husband and I retreated at midnight to a rented room in a local, secluded Tudor farmhouse straight out of a Hammer Horror stage set I got a fit of giggles. "They're going to find blood on the sheets tomorrow," I said to my husband, "and think that I'm a virgin who's just been deflowered." It seemed appropriate under the circumstances. The act of darkness was committed, and very satisfactory it was to all concerned: bridge, groom and, presumably, to the wall-eyed farmer's wife who changed the bed-linen.

I've just been on a very jolly programme for BBC Radio Scotland presented by the writer and wit Damian Barr - the Isherwood de nos jours. The premise was that guests had to choose their three perfect fantasy dinner party guests, the setting for this evening and the menu and entertainment. I spent a week whittling down my favourite characters from history, literature and the present day and eventually plumped for: the racy English actor David Niven, the courtesan Harriette Wilson and Elizabeth I's court favourite, Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex. Niven and Wilson were legendary for their wit, charm and uninhibited enjoyment of sex, while Essex was the kind of impetuous, hot-headed soldier and intriguer who could have made Heathcliffe look dull. What I wanted at my dinner party, I told Barr, were erudite, bold, charismatic people who did not scorn such diversions as gossip and flirtation. (Harriette Wilson's famous memoir starts: "I shall not say why and how I became, at the age of fifteen the mistress of the Earl of Craven." She tried to bribe the Duke of Wellington, amongst others, £200 to keep his name out of the scandal.) I was going to feed them oysters, champagne and linguini with lobster in a gallery at the Wallace Collection - probably the room with Fragonard's famous picture The Swing, where a leering man peers up a young girl's soaring skirts. Then I would summon Bryan Ferry to sing Cole Porter hits. I would count the whole evening a disaster, I told listeners, if it didn't in scenes of wild passion. But who would I take to my chaise longue? Essex or Niven? Or even the delectable Ms Wilson, who Walter Scott said had the saucy manners "of a schoolboy". If only real life were furnished with such dilemmas. It has always struck me as curious that the best thing in the world, i.e. sex, can so easily lead to one of the worst, i.e. pregnancy. Don't get me wrong: babies are the tops - it's just the process of getting one that's abominable. At least it is for those of us who refuse to bloom. For nine long months everywhere I went the sick-bag came too. I threw up in bed, shops, cabs, the bin at work and even on an angry colleague. And then there was the unwelcome sensation of being invaded by an angry little alien who's determined not to let you forget its presence. Suffice to say I didn't feel at my most sexy. If only Agent Provocateur's pregnancy range of underwear had been available to pep me up. My breasts had gone up three cup sizes in a month and what I needed was some seriously gorgeous upholstery to keep those puppies under control. What I got along the high street were vast, hideous armour-padded monstrosities that looked like they'd been designed for Ann Widdecombe to go into battle. Thank the gods AP have put some urgently-needed glamour back into gestation with their fabulous leopard-skin and cerise ranges of pregnancy undies. This is seriously sexy, curve-enhancing lingerie, designed to keep baby blues at bay. More thrilling still, the AP team have collaborated with childbirth guru Dr Gowri Motha to produce an exclusive range of high-waisted, reinforced knickers (rather like the girdles Grace Kelly might wear in a Hitchcock film) that provenly help pull your waist back into shape in the first few months after the birth. Erotic and practical, now that's what I call genius. I may even have another baby... It has always struck me as curious that the best thing in the world, i.e. sex, can so easily lead to one of the worst, i.e. pregnancy. Don't get me wrong: babies are the tops - it's just the process of getting one that's abominable. At least it is for those of us who refuse to bloom. For nine long months everywhere I went the sick-bag came too. I threw up in bed, shops, cabs, the bin at work and even on an angry colleague. And then there was the unwelcome sensation of being invaded by an angry little alien who's determined not to let you forget its presence. Suffice to say I didn't feel at my most sexy. If only Agent Provocateur's pregnancy range of underwear had been available to pep me up. My breasts had gone up three cup sizes in a month and what I needed was some seriously gorgeous upholstery to keep those puppies under control. What I got along the high street were vast, hideous armour-padded monstrosities that looked like they'd been designed for Ann Widdecombe to go into battle. Thank the gods AP have put some urgently-needed glamour back into gestation with their fabulous leopard-skin and cerise ranges of pregnancy undies. This is seriously sexy, curve-enhancing lingerie, designed to keep baby blues at bay. More thrilling still, the AP team have collaborated with childbirth guru Dr Gowri Motha to produce an exclusive range of high-waisted, reinforced knickers (rather like the girdles Grace Kelly might wear in a Hitchcock film) that provenly help pull your waist back into shape in the first few months after the birth. Erotic and practical, now that's what I call genius. I may even have another baby...