‘Jeez, come on, Jessie. Can’t you just feel what I want you to feel?’

‘Which is what?’

‘Jealous.’

Two nights later, Matt takes her dog racing. Even offered to pick her up at the house, which I actively discouraged. Waaaaaay too early to meet the Munster family yet.

With Sharon out and about and Joan hardly ever home anyway, it’s just been Maggie and me on our own together a lot lately and it’s not been pleasant. What’s worse is that, ever since my chat with Sharon the night we watched the documentary, I’ve been trying, really trying to make an effort with her. Complete waste of time though; if I as much as initiate a conversation, all I’ll get is a grunt in return. If I’m lucky and she doesn’t just ignore me, that is. So most of the time we don’t speak at all.

Until the night Sharon’s out on her second date, that is. Maggie and I are watching a re-run of Frasierwhen out of nowhere, she turns to me with poison in her eyes and Bulmers on her breath.

‘Not happy until you’ve waved a wand and changed all of our lives, are you?’ she almost growls at me from her armchair, holding the fag in her hand like it’s a dagger.

I just look at her, determined not to rise to the bait. Trouble is, I’ve had two tins of Bulmers as well, so if she wants to pick a row with me, I’m just sozzled enough to make a stand against all her bullying and low-level passive aggression. No, on second thoughts, make that her full-blown naked aggression.

‘These days, your nickname should be Pollyanna Rockefeller, not Cinderella,’ she says, glaring at me with the flinty eyes. ‘Personally, I preferred it when you were acting like Cinderella though. You were mildly less irritating.’

OK, I know I shouldn’t rise to the bait, but I do. Can’t help myself. Sorry, but I’ve had enough of her sniping at me and it’s time to draw the line. What can I say? There comes a time when you get tired of being treated like the antichrist.

‘Maggie, when are you going to stop being so angry all the time?’

‘On the day that I get married,’ she sneers back at me. ‘That’s the answer you want to hear, isn’t it? The only answer a dolly bird like you would understand. So you can give me a makeover too, send me out of here looking like a dog’s dinner and force me on dates with complete strangers too. Because in your eyes you’re not validated unless you’re in a couple. For feck’s sake, I think that to a vacuous bimbo like you, the feminist movement was just something that happened to other people.’

I slump back into the sofa, take another gulp of cider and abandon the fight before it even begins. Poor Matt the actuary though, I think, feeling sorry for him before we’ve even met.

Imagine being introduced into this?

Next day, when I come home from Radio Dublin, there’s about half a dozen cardboard storage boxes lying in the hallway waiting for me. Joan’s there too, in thunderous form.

‘I almost lost the heel off one of my good shoes tripping over this mountain of rubbish,’ is her greeting to me, as I let myself in. ‘I’m warning you, Jessica, this pile of crap better be cleared out of my sight by the time I get home.’

‘This is all mine?’

‘No, Pope Benedict’s. Who do you thinkit belongs to? Some girl called Amy dropped them off when you were at work. I mean it, I want it all gone by the time I’m back from my soirée tonight.’

Shit, I’ve had so much else on that I completely forgot. She means Amy Blake, the runner on Jessie Would.So sweet of her. Anyway, before I start shifting all the boxes to the safely of the garage, I stop to give Amy a quick call and to apologise for not being here when she called. She answers immediately.

‘Hey, it’s so good to hear from you!’ she laughs cheerily and for a moment it’s just like old times. She chats away, telling me she’ll be working on Emma’s new talk show soon, so she’s all buzzed up about that. ‘Won’t be the same without you though, Jessie. We all miss you so much. You’ve no idea. The place is dead without you. No one treats the runners like you used to.’

‘Aw, thanks Amy. And look, I owe you one for going out of your way to deliver all those boxes. I really do.’

‘Not a problem. I’m sure most of it is for the bin anyway, but I thought I should at least let you decide. I found Emma shredding everything in the entire production office right after the show was canned, so I salvaged as many of your things as I could. You never know, there might be something in there that’s of use to you.’

I thank her again and as I hang up, we promise to meet for coffee soon. Bit odd, I think as I start shifting boxes. Emma shredding documents in the production office, that is. I mean, apart from anything else, why would she be bothered?

Come the following Saturday and things are on such a sure footing with Sharon and Matt, that not only does she want to invite him to the christening at Hannah’s later today, but says he’s even insisting on collecting her at our house, so he can give us both a lift there.

Steve made sure I knew that all the family were invited, but Joan is, surprise, surprise, heading off to the Swiss Cottage, this time she claims for a ‘business meeting’. She even whispers the word ‘business’ as if it’s all top secret and Donald Trump is waiting in the pub’s upstairs room to invest in whatever this mysterious project is. I just smile at her, presuming this is another euphemism for ‘wine tasting’ but no, she says, it really is business and that she’ll tell us all about it ‘once the business plan is finalised’. Honestly, there are times when I wonder why she bothers talking everything up with me. I washed her knickers, for God’s sake; we have NO secrets.

Anyway, I arrange to meet Steve at Hannah’s house that evening, as it’s family only at the church bit; the neighbours are only invited to the knees-up afterwards. I’m actually a bit nervous about seeing Hannah after all these years of not being in contact. And I’m even more eager to finally get a look at Matt the actuary.

Under strict orders from Sharon, he arrives to our house punctual to the dot of 6 p.m. and, as Sharon herself is still upstairs drying her hair, I’m charged with letting the poor guy in and entertaining him until she’s good and ready to come down. This, by the way, is all on account of some self-help book she read which advises that if a guy calls to your door to collect you, then you should keep him waiting as long as possible, at all costs. Ho hum. Just wouldn’t have thought that daft rule would apply in this particular house, but there you go.

Anyway, I trip downstairs and open the door to say hi. Sharon’s right, Matt isn’t tall, but round and bald with black-rimmed glasses and dressed in an immaculately pressed suit. Hard to tell his age, but I’m guessing that he’s looking down the barrel at about forty.

‘Good evening. You must be the lovely Jessie, I presume?’ he says, holding out his hand.

Formal manners, I think, smiling and shaking hands. Old fashioned. Which is nice, cute and kind of endearing. I make him as welcome as I can, and am about to usher him into the kitchen, when Sharon shouts from the top of the stairs to bring him into the TV room. Where Maggie is watching Deal or No Deal,or some similar Saturday evening crap, all while indulging in her favourite hobby: planning out the rest of her night’s viewing with the TV guide plonked on her lap. Feeling mortally sorry for the poor fella, I lead him in and introduce Maggie, who’s sitting like a sumo wrestler in her armchair, glaring at him with the stony grey eyes. Warming up for the fight.

‘And this is my sister, Maggie.’

‘ Stepsister.’

Then I offer him a drink. Anything to make the poor fella feel comfortable.