I’m about to shove the file back into its box and dump the whole lot in the bin when suddenly, a piece of paper flutters out and lands right at my feet. It’s the heading at the top of it that catches my eye. Because it’s from Mercedes Ireland. I recognise the logo immediately. It’s a printout of an email addressed to Emma, care of the production office, and is from some guy called Joe de Courcey.

Dear Emma,it reads. Further to our phone call yesterday I just wanted to confirm in writing that everything is now set firmly in place for tomorrow night’s show.

Tomorrow night’s show…Then I look at the date at the top of the printout. It was sent the Friday before what turned out to be the last ever Jessie Wouldbroadcast.

OK, something is beginning to sound very, very wrong about all this. Because why would Emma have been in touch with Mercedes in the first place? So on I read.

After tomorrow evening’s stunt at Mondello Park involving your colleague Jessie Woods, we’re now pleased to confirm that, at your suggestion, the company are now in a position to invite her to be brand ambassador for Mercedes for a period of one year.

Suddenly I can’t breathe. At Emma’s suggestion? I read on, with disbelief mounting.

Of course, we understand that the element of surprise is a huge factor in getting her to agree, but as you state below, given that her own sports car was repossessed so recently, we feel that an inordinately generous offer like ours is one that surely can’t be refused. Naturally, we are terribly sorry at your declining our offer, but fully understand that you’re not in need of a new car, having just purchased one so recently. But we’re most grateful to you for selflessly putting forward your colleague in your place. I’m happy to say that we’re all in agreement with you here, Miss Woods would make an ideal candidate for a Mercedes brand ambassadorship.

We trust this will be the beginning of a long and fruitful relationship between us.

Sincerely,

Joe de Courcey

It gets worse. Far worse.

Emma’s original email to him is on the printout below his reply, there in black and white for me to see. Even though I can barely believe what it is that I’m actually reading.

Dear Joe,

Firstly, apologies again for my not being able to take you up on your kind offer, but thanks so much again for being so understanding about it. Believe me, had I not changed my own car so recently, I’d have jumped at your generous suggestion!

About my other idea, I forgot to mention that Jessie’s car was repossessed only a few weeks back and I’ve no doubt that, if faced with a brand, spanking new Mercedes SLK in showroom condition, will be only too delighted to accept. Who wouldn’t be? The main thing to remember is not to take no for an answer. She’s proud and will really need this forced on her! I’m thinking, maybe personalised number plates might be an idea? However, I’ll leave the details in your more than capable hands.

Many thanks again for all your kindness and generosity in this matter, I couldn’t be more grateful and I’m certain that Jessie will feel the same.

Best wishes,

Emma

Now I think I might be sick. My hands are trembling, my heart is palpitating and my breathing is short and jagged, like I’m having a full-blown panic attack. I read and reread it over and over again, but there’s no mistake.

Emma set me up for a fall.

Emma, my trusted friend.

I have to keep saying it out loud because it just sounds so completely ridiculous, I mean this is Emma I’m talking about here! Apart from anything else, why would she do something like that to me? I was her co-presenter, for God’s sake, her team-mate!

Then like a thunderbolt, it hits me. Because until I came along, shewas Channel Six’s rising star, not me. I started out with just a little five-minute dare segment on what was then her show and it all mushroomed from there.

Could she really have wanted me out of the way that desperately?

The more I think about it the more mental it sounds, but then I keep coming back to the email and reading it over and over again.

There’s no mistake. Emma was the only person alive who I’d confided in about my own car being repossessed, so she knew my weak spot and went in for the kill. There’s no other way of looking at it. Plus, according to this email, she was initially offered the car herself and turned it down, knowing it was a sackable offence, but put me up for it instead. It’s at this stage that I honestly think I might need to start breathing into a paper bag. I don’t, but I do desperately need to confide in someone and NOW. Sharon’s out with Matt, Maggie’s pacing around the TV room downstairs, immersed in her routine, Joan’s in a fouler, so instead of turning to any of them, I call the one person who I know will talk me off the ledge I’m perched on. In other words, Steve.

I’ve barely said hello when he instantly asks if everything’s OK. But there’s just no way that I can possibly begin to tell him over the phone. So I just tell him that I urgently need to talk to him, somewhere private.

‘Where are you now?’ he asks firmly.

‘Home.’ Honest to God, my voice sounds so tiny, you’d think it was coming from another room.

‘Stay right where you are. I’m on my way.’

Half an hour later, he’s sitting on Sharon’s bed, with his long legs stretched out in front of him, reading the email printout for about the tenth time. I’m on my own bed opposite him, white-faced and physically shivering from the shock of it all.

‘Jessie, are you sure you’re all right?’

‘Yes. I mean no. I mean, I don’t know. I just…this can’t be happening. Just can’t be.’

‘It’s a lot to take in all right.’ Then a wry grin at me. ‘And you said I watched too many conspiracy movies.’

I look guiltily at him. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘You know when I saw that documentary about you, it did strike me that the whole thing stank to high heaven. There was something not quite right about it. I remember thinking that it really looked like you’d been set up for a fall. And I’m not the only one who thought so either.’

‘But this is Emma we’re talking about here. Emma!’ I repeat for about the hundredth time, slumping back against the pillows in frustration. ‘We’ve been friends for…’

‘For how long now?’

‘Since I first started doing freelance bits of reporting for Channel Six. Then I got a tiny little feature-ette on what used to be her talk show…’

‘Oldest motivation in the book. She was jealous of your popularity and in one fell swoop this got rid of you in such a way that it would almost be impossible for you ever to come back.’

‘It has to be a mistake. I just can’t believe it of her…’

‘Like in all conspiracy theories, the first question you have to ask yourself is, who stood to benefit? Answer: Emma Sheridan. Look at what she’s gained; not only has she got you out of her hair, she’s even got her own talk show.’

‘But why would she do something so daft as to leave an incriminating email lying around the office? Suppose someone had found it?’

‘She slipped up. Look at the date on the email; the day before your very last show. Sounds to me like she saw her opportunity and grabbed it, but was up against the clock. Which didn’t exactly leave her much time to cover all of her tracks, did it? Maybe she meant to delete the email but printed it off accidentally because she was in such a blind panic. Maybe, I dunno, maybe someone in the office interrupted her, so she shoved it somewhere, fully intending to shred it later on when she had more privacy. But the point is, no one did find the email, did they? Even you only stumbled on it by chance.’