What does a man really look for in a woman? I found myself pondering this question (again) Sunday while my two roommates and I prepared ourselves for a group date with an artistic hunk.

After a week fantasizing about him, we three plus a fourth friend were all going for brunch with this 29-year-old Tom, who looks like Johnny Depp and was introduced to us a week earlier.

Now, as we all got ready for the big showdown, I began obsessing over which one of us he might go for. Each of us, it seemed to me, had a very different appeal.

There was Suzy, a photographer with a wild mop of long blond hair and a penchant for grouting the bathroom. A manic queen of do-it-yourself practicality, she was not making any effort for Tom at all.

The advantage of brunch, she argued, was that the pressures of a formal “date situation” were off. So why get dressed up? But would Tom find Suzy too grungy and hyperactive?

Perhaps he’d prefer pretty Sacha – a classic girl-next door type and Meg Ryan lookalike. Sacha loves to party, but she was never more in her element than when handing out steaming cups of coffee to firefighters at Ground Zero.

There’s a theory that says men go for women who they think will make great wives. If true, Tom would pick her. In her opinion, making an effort to look like you haven’t made an effort was the best way to snare a guy.

Not long before we were set to go, our friend Fiona arrived, another competitor who would join the fray.

How to sum up Fiona? Sassy, sexy, feisty, often found in skimpy vests and low slung pants. She’s a girl who happily unleashes a sultry swagger or naughty giggle depending on what takes her mood.

Her philosophy on the date? It may only be brunch, but why not sport a glimpse of tanned midriff over a slinky black sweater and tight jeans if you’re out to catch a man?

After all, guys can’t help but be attracted to looks, so shouldn’t a girl try to look hot, whatever the time of day?

As for me, well, being the oldest of the group, I decided to pretend to be the most mature and worldly wise. I’d sneak a Herald Tribune under my arm and pretend to be interested only in Afghanistan. It was unlikely he would be fooled.

We excitedly grabbed a cab to an East Village cafe to meet our male Italian friend, Andrea, who had invited Tom to the brunch. But when we got there, Andrea was sitting at a table – alone. We sat down, pretending not to notice the glaring omission.

Eventually I broached the question: “Er, so what time’s Tom coming down?” I asked breezily.

“Oh, he couldn’t make it in the end,” replied Andrea, oblivious.

“What????” I wanted to shout out. After all this build-up? We’d done all that prepping and analysis, and there was to be no competition after all.

Disappointed, the four of us decided to enjoy a girlie brunch instead. Several hours and two bottles of wine later, we were staggering home when we found a sofa left out on the sidewalk.

“Let’s take it for the apartment,” suggested Suzy. (We’ve needed a new sofa for ages.) “Who do we know with a car?”

Andrea had an idea: Tom.

“Brilliant!” I said. “Hurry up, ring him now!”

Fifteen minutes later, Tom appeared in his Jeep.

He found four giggling girls lined up on a sofa on First Avenue. “If only he knew,” I thought.

“Right, we need rope,” said Suzy.

“I know where to get some,” I chipped in, still keen to impress Tom by feigning mature aloofness. We rushed off to the gas station, while Sacha and Fiona lounged seductively on the sofa. When we got back, Tom was chatting away with them both.

By the time we returned to our neighborhood, the competition had officially begun. But we hadn’t expected to flaunt our qualities while heaving a massive piece of furniture up four flights of stairs.

Suzy and I pushed and groaned, trying to look boyish and tough. Sacha stretched out across the banister, giving unhelpful positioning tips.

Fiona whipped off her sweater to reveal a clingy black vest. But Tom was too busy trying to calculate how to get the sofa through our front door to pay attention to any of us.

Once the sofa was safely installed, he left, oblivious to the whole charade.

So what does a guy really go for in a girl? For all our speculation, we were no nearer the answer.

We were forced to conclude that men are simply too dense to notice all the calculated magic women use to snare guys. If we were to get Tom, we realized, one of us would just have to make a bold lunge at him one-on-one.

For the moment, however, hanging out on our new sofa seemed like a lot more fun.