Satisfy a millionaire!

Zoe, bless her, never looked anything but perfectly confident that she would match this rag-tag bunch with appropriate reading matter. She just needed an hour or so to make her selection - enough time, she explained, for the client to shop on Jermyn Street (most personal shoppers' clients are men) or lunch at Fortnum's.

Bliss: I was absolved from doing anything, basking in the knowledge that as the minutes ticked by, Zoe would be groaning ever louder under an ever heavier load of books.

And so it turned out: when Zoe resurfaced, she had two helpers in tow, so heavy was her literary burden. As I sat back in my armchair, she sorted the books on the table before me. For my beloved Edward, she had chosen Microcosm: a Portrait of a Central European City by Norman Davies and Roger Moorhouse. (Not very romantic, I grant you: but then this is the man who proposed to me over his newspaper during breakfast.)

For Johnny and Hugo, Zoe had played safe, selecting Philip Pullman's Northern Lights (Johnny) and Count Karlstein (Hugo). (Hmm: should the former editor of the Catholic Herald put money in God-bashing Pullman's pockets? A moral dilemma.)

For my brother she had chosen 50 years of Playboy: no text, just photos of 44-24-34 bunnies. (Who needs words when a cleavage speaks volumes?) For Charlotte she had chosen a Thames and Hudson book dedicated to the work of the Italian master jeweller Verdura. (Art Deco jewellery to aspire to, in a glossy volume to die for.)

Zoe had come up with The Origin of Plants by Maggie Campbell-Culver, a beautifully illustrated hardback for my countryloving in-laws. (Would the retired philosophy don bury Socrates and Plato just long enough to tend to his sassafras and petunias?)

Peter Wilby was going to get The World According to Margaret Thatcher - a collection of the Baroness's most priceless gems. (Not to read, of course: to throw darts at.)

And finally, for Geoffrey Robinson we had The World Encyclopedia of Champagne. (What more could a Dom Perignon socialist wish for?)

The whole lot came to £144. But would Zoe's choices suit the recipients of my generosity? With Edward, Zoe was spot on: he is a big Norman Davies fan. His sons, however, were underwhelmed by the Pullmans: didn't I know that the books had been out for years? My brother issued a wolf-whistle when he saw the Playboy tome - high praise indeed. The in-laws also expressed their satisfaction, and Charlotte was impressed with the Verdura. The Maggie book already occupies pride of place in Peter Wilby's office. As for Geoffrey Robinson - a deafening silence thus far. I just hope that's because he is already ensconced in his Tuscan villa rather than busy writing my P45. A modest sum, really, considering how many people I would be making happy. Myself above all.