‘Get out more,’ says Gemma from Sandymount. ‘A lot more. Worst thing you can do is hole up in your house, like Anne Frank.’ Lizzy from Clontarf rings in to agree, with the added caveat that you must never, under any circumstances ever leave the house un-beautiful, on the grounds that the day you do saunter out in a manky tracksuit with three-day-old hair and no make-up, is the very day you’re guaranteed to bump into him.

Then Tara from Temple Bar calls to say it helps to make out an iTunes list of the best break-up songs of all time. ‘Any suggestions?’ I ask tentatively. ‘I’m Not in Love’ by 10CC is her personal favourite, which by a miracle, Ian in the production box manages to root out of the library and we play it to take us out, as the show wraps.

Never in my whole life have two hours gone by in such a blink.

Steve is still there when I get out and offers me a ride home on the back of his motorbike, which I gladly accept.

‘I don’t know how you did it, Jessie,’ he says as we leave the deserted building together. ‘But it’s like you’ve tapped into something big here. Sure, I knew there were a lot of lonely hearts out there, listening in at this hour of the night, but what’s amazing is that they’re all fully prepared to ring in and talk about the most intimate, personal details of their break-ups.’

‘I know, I thought I’d never get that last caller to shut up about her ex. If she’d had a guitar, she’d have written a ballad about him.’

He snorts laughing.

‘Please tell me I’m not that bad,’ I say suddenly.

‘Jessie, no oneis that bad.’

We speed through the near empty streets and he drops me right to my front door. I hop off the bike, hand back the helmet and hug him warmly.

‘Now I know we work you hard at Radio Dublin, so into bed and get your beauty sleep,’ he smiles. ‘And I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come in for a coffee?’ I ask, feeling I should but kind of half hoping he’ll say no.

‘Another time. But tell Sharon I said hi, won’t you? And that she and that fella of hers are invited to my gig this Sunday night. You’re coming too, but then you don’t have a choice, even if it is your one and only night off. All Radio Dublin employees are required to attend the boss’s band sessions. It’s compulsory.’

A lovely feeling of deep warmth comes over me. ‘You’re a good friend, Steve, you do know that, don’t you?’

He nods from under his helmet, waits until I’m inside, then zooms off into the night.

Given that Sharon and I have been working in what feels like totally different time zones this week, I’m actually glad when I come to the next morning and she’s still in our room, straightening her hair. Mind you, I think it could be the smell of burning that wakes me.

Delighted that I caught her, I nip out of bed and pull the flyer I robbed from the Radio Dublin kitchen out of my jeans pocket. And just like me, she reads it, stunned.

‘Jeez, this is…I mean…this could be…’

‘I know,’ I say, nodding.

‘But do you think she might…’

‘Not if it comes from me she won’t. But maybe if you were to broach it with her…’

‘Leave it with me. With a subtle mixture of bullying and reverse psychology, I’d be surprised if I don’t have an answer for you by tonight.’

Joan has news for me too. Now I’m the first to admit that I laughed when she talked about going to her wine tastings, I sniggered when she yakked on about doing re-enactments from The Mikadoand yet again, I nearly choked on my Bran Flakes when she’d swan off for ‘business meetings’ down in the Swiss Cottage night after night.

But I’m not laughing now.

Next morning, after Sharon’s left for work, it’s just Joan and me for a mid-morning brekkie. I pad my way softly into the kitchen, all set for our usual morning game of tip-toe round the mood swings. But as luck would have it, she’s in top form today, happily bouncing around the place. She even offers to cook me one of her big fries, which I gratefully accept. I’m still in my pyjamas, even though it’s well past eleven, but she’s dressed to kill in a neat little black suit with matching everything.

‘Looking good,’ I wolf whistle at her, messing. ‘Very Joan Collins circa the Dynasty/Nolan Miller years.’ I’m running a risk saying that much; in one of her foul moods she’d have cut the face off me for less. But for some reason today it’s like she’s the Prozac version of her usual self.

She does an obliging twirl then sits down beside me.

‘Exciting news, Jessica. Huge news, in fact. And I want you to be the first to know, because I may need you to give us a little plug on your radio show. Oh and I need another small favour too. And in return, I have a little surprise for you.’

‘Sure, what’s up?’

Then she says that, seeing as how Sharon and I have been sharing a bedroom for so long now, she’s thinking of redecorating it, which completely stuns me. Bear in mind that this is as close as Joan could ever possibly get to expressing affection for another human being. In this house, all outward displays of emotion are done via the Laura Ashley catalogue. I thank her, really touched, then ask what the other big news is.

‘I’m going into business,’ she announces, glowingly. ‘You are looking at a director of a newly formed company. I’m getting business cards printed up and everything. No expense spared.’

‘That’s fantastic, but…what exactly is the business?’

‘Oh, very cutting edge. Not my actual idea, credit for that goes to Jimmy Watson in the Swiss Cottage, who I really think is something of a business genius…’

‘And…?’

‘…but I am a principal investor and employee in the company…’

‘Joan! Gimme the last sentence first, will you?’

‘As a matter of fact, we’re a web-based company. On the internet, you know.’

Joan pronounces ‘internet’ like it’s a brand new thing that only got invented yesterday. I also refrain from reminding her of how she used to have a go at myself and Sharon for spending so much time online. Her exact comment, I recall, was that the World Wide Web existed purely so that nerds could find out what other nerds thought about Star Trek.

‘Now Jessica, you’re not to laugh…’

‘Course I won’t.’

‘It’s called IPrayForYou.com.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Like all great ideas, it’s actually very simple,’ she smiles smugly, as if she’s reading a voice over for a new kind of bank account. ‘You see, we’ve already bought the web space and as soon as it’s properly designed, Jimmy and I are going to launch it together online.’

‘IPrayForYou.com?’

‘Well, the idea is that people can go online, give us all their credit card details and in return, we’ll pray for them. Our rates are very reasonable I’ll have you know. Fifty cents to light a candle, one Euro for a Hail Mary or an Our Father, five Euro for a decade of the rosary and a tenner for a full rosary. Of course the real beauty of it is that I can do the actual praying anywhere. In the car, in work, even while I’m watching the telly.’

‘But you’re not even religious!’

‘Did I say I was? This is business, Jessica. Try to keep up.’

I just look at her, dumbfounded. ‘And do you think people might actually go for this?’ I manage to splurt out in between mouthfuls of fried egg.

‘Oh listen to you, so cynical. You know some people look at things as they are and ask why. I dream of things that never were and ask why not.’

‘Well, what can I say? Best of luck with it, Joan.’

‘You’re most kind. Oh and I need a favour from you too. That stuff you’ve been storing in the garage will have to be cleared out as soon as you possibly can. Those boxes are all just going to have to go upstairs to your room.’

‘Sure…but why?’

‘Because our garage is going to be the official IPrayForYou.com headquarters, of course.’