‘…and Amy here even said she caught you shredding documents in the production office right after I got fired. So now we all know why!’

‘I’ll vouch for you there, Jessie!’ Amy shouts out loyally, bless her.

As I’m finally hustled out the studio door, Steve is waiting, leading another round of applause and beaming proudly at me from ear to ear.

‘You DID it!’ he yells, grabbing me into a bear hug and squeezing me tight. ‘You got her good! I could not be prouder of you, you were AMAZING!’

‘Get me out of here,’ is all I can gibber back at him. ‘Now.’

Next thing, we’re hand-in-hand, racing towards the main reception door, like the pair of us have just held up a bank at gunpoint or something. We make it outside, just as someone behind us screeches out my name.

‘JESSIE! Jessie, wait up will you?’

It’s lovely Cheryl from make-up. With the famous email in her hand.

‘Here love,’ she says breathlessly, thrusting it back at me. ‘Sorry, that was me who snatched it from you back there.’

I just look at her, still panting and not able to talk. Or even think straight.

‘You really played a blinder you know,’ she wheezes.

‘So why did you need this…?’ I gasp back, clutching the email.

‘To photocopy it, of course. Then I ran down to Liz Walsh’s office and left a copy of it there, so she can see it for herself.’

‘Liz who?’ says Steve.

‘The Head of Television. Just figured that this is something she should know about. Don’t you?’

I hug her goodbye and thank her profusely and next thing, it’s just Steve and me on our own together in the late evening sunshine. Then for some mad reason, out of nowhere we both crack up laughing, as giddy as two children.

‘So, where to now?’ he laughs happily, arm around my waist now, steering me towards the bike.

I’m still giddy and hysterical and still trying to get my breath back, but somehow I manage to say, ‘To work, of course. Hey, Emma Sheridan isn’t the only one with a show to do tonight.’

And I’m not even sure how it happens, but the next thing is, we’re kissing.

Chapter Eighteen

Meanwhile, Maggie’s big night is this Sunday in the Comedy Cellar and, I swear to God, the rest of us at home are practically mouthing her routine along with her at this stage. She’s been working her arse off too. Night after night you’ll find her pacing up and down the TV room trying some of her riffs this way, then that, constantly scribbling down notes, changes, additions, whatever. In her defence, she did hone down her act considerably as some of the gags were just a bit too ahem, let’s just say personal.

‘My stepsister recently got dumped by her boyfriend,’ went one of her jokes, ha ha ha, ‘and you should have seen the state of her; she was in absolute bits. In fact, if it wasn’t for the Valium, she’d be on drugs.’

She looked at me hopefully but all I could do was shake my head.

‘Cut?’ she asked.

‘Definitely cut.’

Nor was Sharon exempt either.

‘My sister,’ went another gag, ‘works at Smiley Burger and was recently made Employee of the Month. Which just goes to show you that it’s possible to be both a winner and a loser at the same time.’

‘Cut immediately, you cheeky skanger!!’ Sharon screeched, flinging a handful of popcorn across the room at her, and in fairness, Maggie obediently did as she was told.

So now, with only a few days to go to the big night, the routine is looking far sharper and wittier, with Maggie’s uniquely droll take on the world practically imprinted on every line. ‘I’m a toxic single female,’ goes one particular riff. ‘And the thing is, I get a lot of grief for not having a boyfriend. Anyway, I got fed up with all the old aunties and uncles saying to me at weddings, “Oh, you’ll be next.” So I started saying it to them at funerals.’

The highest compliment I give her, which I mean so sincerely, is that even though I’ve heard her rehearse that joke over and over again, I still laugh. The hallmark of a true comic. So I tell her this and she glows.

‘You’re not just saying that?’

‘I’m not just saying that.’

‘And you promise me you’ll sit in the front row on Sunday night, not let on you know me and laugh uproariously at all my gags?’

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. It’s the highlight of my week.’

‘Thanks Jessie. I mean…for everything.’

It’s the happiest I think I’ve ever seen her. These days she’s even being nice to Matt, for God’s sake.

Anyway, Steve has asked me out. At least I sort of think he did. The thing is that after the snogging incident last Saturday night, things have been kind of weird between us. In the way that these things always end up getting weird. Which I hate, because apart from anything else, he’s my friend and I wouldn’t want to lose that for the world.

But, after The Midnight Houron Saturday night, he gave me a lift home and there was no repeat performance of us leaping on each other like we did outside Channel Six. In fact, as he dropped me off at Whitehall, it was kind of…strange. Like something had shifted between us. I felt shy and mortified around him and I’m never shy or mortified around Steve, ever. We said a hurried goodnight, then I lay awake for the rest of the night playing the whole evening over in my head like a loop. The euphoria of the moment must be my excuse. After making such a spectacle of myself in Channel Six, having done exactly what I set out to do in letting Emma have it, it was just a huge release of emotions, nothing more. Because how could I ever even think about letting someone else into my heart? Not possible. Not while I’m still grieving the loss of…well, you know who.

Steve calls me the next day, which is Sunday, my day off. Yet more weirdness and awkwardness. Funny to think that he and I are capable of having two-hour-long chats when we’re face to face about the most inane crap you ever heard and yet now, our conversation is stilted and ikky. The pair of us are both tongue-tied, actually speaking to each other in broken sentences.

‘Sorry to bother you on your day off, Jessie, but I just really called to say—’

‘It’s fine. I’m actually helping Joan with her website.’

‘Well, that’s great. I mean, isn’t it? For Joan, is what I—’

‘Yeah.’

‘So, anyway, the thing is…I’ve got band practice tonight. We’ve got a gig at a festival down the country next Friday and Saturday.’

‘Oh, that’s good.’

‘Because otherwise, what I mean is…I mean if I didn’t…’

‘No, no, you go to band practice and enjoy.’

‘Well, what I mean is, if I was free then I’d be asking you…except that…well…you’re not free are you?’

‘No…I’m helping Joan…’

‘Yeah, yeah. Sorry, you already said. So maybe on your next night off, like next Sunday, maybe you and I could…’

‘Oh, that’s the night of Maggie’s stand-up, she made me swear in blood that I’d be there for her. We all have to be.’

‘Well then, why don’t I come too?’

‘Oh…yeah, of course! That would be…lovely.’

‘I was going to say it to some of the guys at work too. Because it’ll be a fun night.’

‘Oh. OK. Good idea. Well then, in that case…’

‘Then I could invite Hannah and Paul too…’

‘Brilliant. It’d be lovely to see her out and about.’

‘Well, then, I’ll…see you tomorrow, I suppose.’

And he’s gone. Leaving me shaking my head and puzzled. Did he just try to ask me out or didn’t he? I can’t figure it. Because I’d have asked him to come along and support Maggie on her big night anyway, along with a whole load of people from Radio Dublin. Which makes it sound like a groupie-groupie, non-date-type night, doesn’t it? And then he was the one who suggested bringing Hannah and her husband along too. Did he say that thinking there’d be safety in numbers? So, weighing up all the probabilities, to quote Matt, the likelihood staring me in the face is that this is most definitely NOT a date. Just a gang of mates going out for a laugh. That’s all.