‘For feck’s sake, Jessie, he looks like a younger version of Santa and his user name is Desperado.’

‘Show me his profile.’

‘He’s a sixty-four-year-old divorcee with four kids. He’s a non-smoker and his tag line says “Get me out of this rut.” Gakkety gak gak. Can you imagine me as a stepmother? With Ma as a shining example to guide me?’

I won’t argue with her on that one, so I let her delete. Anyway, we manage to kill a whole half hour like this before it even crosses my mind to go downstairs and check my mobile for messages.

By 11 a.m. though, I’m starting to get just the teeniest bit antsy, so I run down to my handbag, whip out the phone and keep it close by me. No harm in that. I also show Sharon last night’s paper and fill her in on this latest twist in my love life, mainly because I do really sincerely hope she’ll keep in contact with me after I move out of here.

It’s really sweet actually, she kind of looks disappointed when I break it to her that my days here are numbered.

‘So, like…are you getting back with him, or what then?’

‘Well, not exactly, but I’m confident it’s just a matter of time. He’ll call today, maybe any minute now. But in the meantime, I’m just sitting tight and doing absolutely nothing and you’re going to do the same with me.’

‘What?’

‘Oh Sharon, you have so much to learn from me,’ I smile, a bit patronisingly. ‘You see the thing about guys is that they only really appreciate you if you’re like a prize to them. And prizes have to be won. So I’m advising you to do exactly as I’m doing. Leave it a good twenty-four hours before you message back any of the guys you like. Don’t let them know you’re interested. Just play it cool. Look at me, and learn from the master. I mean, do you see me picking up the phone to Sam?’

‘You did loads of times when you first moved in here. Me and Maggie used to think you were talking to yourself the whole time, until Maggie copped on you were leaving about two hundred voice messages for him. Jeez, you were like Sky News, every hour on the hour.’

OK, I was kind of hoping that mightn’t come up.

‘Yes, well, that was then and this is now,’ I snap back defensively. ‘The point is, there are times when you have to let a fella chase you and this is most definitely one of those times. For both of us. And if a guy chooses not to pursue you, then you’re gracious and dignified, but you move on. Plenty more fish and all that.’

‘Can I not just message back this guy here? His profile sounds really funny. Look, he says, “Please don’t ask my age; in dog years, I’m already dead.” And he’s online now.’

‘Sharon!’

Anyway I do amazingly well and manage to hold out until well after 11.30 without going near the phone, but then I think, you know, this could actually be very hard for Sam. After all, he’s not a guy who finds it easy to admit that he was ever in the wrong, so…in that case, why don’t I drop him a little text message? Just to let him know I’m thinking about him, that’s all. Except I don’t want Sharon seeing what I’m at, so I slip in the bathroom and text him from there. Nothing furtive about it, I just need a bit of privacy for this.

By lunchtime, there’s no reply. So, same drill, I slip back to the loo and send a second text.

Still no answer.

So a few minutes later, I head back to the bathroom again and text again. Then I slip back to Sharon’s room and give her a great lecture about how when a fella is interested, you don’t need to do a single thing. They’ll make all the running and what’s more they’ll enjoy it. She’s totally engrossed in the computer screen and I’ve the phone in my dressing gown pocket, which I keep surreptitiously checking, oh, about every two minutes or so.

‘Is there something wrong with you?’ she asks after a while, worriedly.

‘No, why?’

‘Because you keep staring down into your nether regions. Anything you want to tell me?’

‘No, I just…emm…might need the loo again. Something I ate last night is…ehh…disagreeing with me. That’s all.’

Feck it, might as well leave a proper voice message for him. To hell with all this texting lark. In for a penny, in for a pound. He doesn’t answer, so I wait for the beep on his message minder to come on. I’m in the tiny bathroom, balancing on the edge of the bath, in the middle of a message for Sam so long the beeps cut me off, when the door suddenly bursts open.

‘I knewit! You were in here ringing that Sam Hughes fella all the time, weren’t you?’ Sharon yells, grabbing the phone off me and checking the number on it. ‘And here’s me, like a gobshite, taking dating advice from you?’ She’s so infuriated, you’d swear she’d caught me in here mainlining heroin.

‘Now there’s absolutely no need for you to overreact…’

‘And why is that, exactly?’

‘Because…it’s different for me. Remember, I’ve been with him for two years you know, so the same set of rules don’t apply.’

‘Bugger that, Little Miss Do As I Say, Don’t Do As I Do. You’re completely deluded. Jeez, you could give lessons in self-delusion to Heather Mills.’

By 2 p.m., all pride is abandoned and I’ve rung eight times, not including all the text messages. I didn’t count, but Sharon did. And still no reply. I even tried calling Eva, who’s still in Spain with Nathaniel, but, surprise, surprise, she didn’t answer either.

By 2.10 p.m., I’ve convinced myself that Sam will just do the obvious thing and call here after work. Then another alarm bell. As I’m frantically pacing up and down the tiny hallway, I suddenly catch sight of myself in one of the half dozen mirrors Joan has hanging here. Christ alive, look at the state of me. In all the time I’ve been here, I don’t think I’ve even bothered once to actually take one long, hard look at my appearance. I look grey, washed out and so scrawny you’d think I weighed approximately the same as your average carton of milk. The circles under my eyes are pitch black, like a two-year-old attacked me with a Crayola, and I’m also wearing the same manky dressing gown and pyjamas I’ve been living, eating, drinking and sleeping in for weeks now. Don’t get me wrong, I have flung them in the washing machine the odd time, but basically now they’re so minging, they could do with having a stake put through them. Then there’s the small matter of my hair. The mousey brown roots on show are so glaringly bad, I’m staring at them in horror. It’s so long since I’ve seen my natural colour, I’d actually forgotten what it was.

In a blind panic, I leg it upstairs, race to the bathroom, fling off the PJs, switch on the shower and hop in. Then, a far better idea hits me. Two seconds later, I’m hammering on Sharon’s door, wrapped in a towel and still dripping wet.

‘Come in.’ There she is, still so engrossed in NeverTooLateToMate.com that she doesn’t even bother looking up at me.

‘Sharon, dire catastrophe. Will you lend me some money?’

‘Piss off. I’ve already lent you money to pay off your mobile phone.’

‘I told you, I’ll pay you back as soon as my emergency dole money comes through. But the thing is, now I need more.’

‘What for?’

‘To get my roots done. Now. Today. Look at the state of me, would you? For God’s sake, Myra Hindley had better hair. Can’t believe you never pointed out to me how utterly crap I look. So if you think about it, in a way…this is all your fault. So you have to lend me the cash.’

No response.

‘Come on, Sharon, don’t make me beg.’

She glances up to where I’m standing in her doorway, half naked and leaving a pool of water on Joan’s Laura Ashley country floral carpet.

‘Is this because in your deranged state, you think Sam Hughes is on his way over here now to whisk you back to his country residence?’

‘I don’t just think it, I know it.’

‘Even though he’s ignored every one of your two dozen phone calls and hasn’t even bothered his arse getting back to you? You read one stupid article in one of Ma’s trashy papers and now you’re acting like a complete and utter headcase.’