‘Steve…’ I say, sitting forward and meeting his blue gaze, ‘I’ve something to ask, something big and I’m going to fumble it, so you have to listen. Call me a greedy cow who wants to have her cake and eat it but the thing is…Liz Walsh wants me to leave Radio Dublin…and I don’t. I love working there. I love working with you. And I know it’s impossible for me to do The Midnight Hourand work for Channel Six.’

Suddenly he’s sitting forward, all animated. ‘It doesn’t necessarily have to be a problem,’ he says, thinking on his feet. ‘Of course it’s out of the question your doing The Midnight Hoursix nights a week any more, but how’s this for a suggestion? You still work for us, except now we call the programme Woods at the Weekend,’ he says, buzzing with excitement now, running his fingers through his hair. ‘And it goes out one night a week, on a Sunday, when you’re not shooting for Channel Six. It would be the same basic show, maybe slightly longer, but still with the original format: listeners call in with dating horror stories and you interact with them. What do you say?’

‘It’s…I mean…that would be…It’s completely perfect.’

So perfect that for a second, all I want to do is hug him. But I don’t, I just look at him, smiling and teary at the same time. Not trusting myself to believe just how well things have worked out. We both get up to leave as he’s another meeting later on and needs to go.

Then he stops for a second and gently takes my arm, suddenly looking…I don’t know, confused? Conflicted? God, if there’s another woman out there worse at reading men than me, I’d really like to meet her.

‘Look, Jessie,’ he says, tenderly. ‘About the other night—’

‘No, no, no need to say a thing, it was all my fault—’

‘No, what I wanted to say was that, well…I know that you’re still getting over a bad break-up and I know how hard that can be.’

‘Well, yes, but…’

‘Just in case you wondered why I’d stepped back a bit…’

‘No, not at all…’

Great, now we’re back to the fragmented sentences again.

‘So I’ll see you at the Comedy Cellar for Maggie’s gig this Sunday then?’

‘Yeah,’ I smile. ‘Definitely.’

For a split second, I think he’s about to lean down and kiss me – and half of me wouldn’t mind it if he did – then next thing, my mobile rings. Roger Davenport, my agent. ‘Oh shit, I have to take this,’ I stammer, nearly dropping the phone.

He just nods, tweaks my chin and winks down at me. And then he’s gone.

By that evening, Roger has a contract from Channel Six, pay rise included, signed, sealed and delivered. Just like that. With a night off on Sunday, so I can continue to work at Radio Dublin too. It’s the best of all worlds, and it’s mine for the taking. But what’s completely weird is that I still don’t feel euphoric or even remotely like celebrating.

Because there’s still someone else I have to talk to and I’m looking forward to it as much as root canal.

Sharon.

By the time I get home, she’s on her own in the kitchen, reading Hot Starsmagazine and eating a pizza, while Maggie practises her routine in the TV room. Perfect time to get her, right after food. I fill her in on all the developments then, drawing a deep breath up from the floor, go for the one sentence I’ve dreaded having to tell her.

‘The thing is, Sharon…’

‘Yeah?’

‘Well, I mean, now that I’ve got my old job back and everything, well…it’s probably time I thought about…you know…’

‘I think I know what you’re going to say, Jess.’

In the end, it’s actually easier for me just to come straight out with it. ‘I’m moving out.’

It’s heart-breaking really; for a second I think the two of us are going to cry.

‘Come on, Sharon,’ I say, gently taking her hand. ‘I couldn’t keep on sharing your room forever. Apart from everything else, won’t you be glad to have the space back?’

‘No,’ she blurts. ‘No, I’m not glad. Sod the sodding space. I don’t want you to go. Anyway, you can’tgo. Ma is redecorating that room especially for us.’

For a second, I smile, touched that a Laura Ashley makeover would be a motivation for me to hang around. ‘Jess, I don’t want it to go back to only seeing you at Dad’s anniversary mass once a year for ten minutes. I’d miss you too much.’

‘I swear, it’s not goodbye. I’ll still visit all the time, and not just at Christmas either. Hey, we’re friends now and that’s what really matters.’

‘It’s going to be so boring around here without you. You’ve no idea.’

‘Come on, you’ve got Matt now. Sure you’re practically out five nights a week with him.’

She does what she always does whenever Matt’s name comes up. Shrugs, lights up a fag and changes the subject.

‘So where will you move to?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll rent somewhere close to Channel Six. A small, one-bedroomed apartment maybe. But absolutely nowhere over my budget and nowhere that’s too ridiculously big for me. I’ve been down that road and learned that lesson, I can tell you. Small and affordable will be just fine. My days of over borrowing and over spending to keep up with the Joneses are well and truly over. No more acting like a gap-year trustafarian and no more flashy cars either; I’ll get myself a bike and that’ll have to do me.’

‘Joan and Maggie will miss you too.’

‘And I’ll miss them. But Joan has her IPrayForYou.com business on the go and Maggie’s going to do brilliantly at the Comedy Cellar on Sunday, you wait and see. But the person I’m going to miss the most is you.’

‘Me too.’

I lean over to give her a big hug and that’s when the pair of us start to well up a bit.

‘We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?’ she says, sniffling. ‘Since you first moved in. I mean, who’d have thought?’

‘Such a long way.’

‘Won’t miss you nicking all my cans of cider though. Jeez, for a skinny bitch, you’re sure as hell able to put away the Bulmers.’

‘Oh, and you think I’m going to miss you robbing all my make-up, you thieving cow?’

Now we’re both giggling a bit.

‘Just remember, you’re my sister and I’ll always be there for you.’

‘I’ll always be there for you too.’

Chapter Twenty

I don’t know how it happened. And what’s more I’m fully prepared to swear on my parents’ grave that it had nothing whatsoever to do with me. But by the following Wednesday, the papers are full and I really do mean fullof the story.

It seems that some bright spark in the studio audience for the showdown between myself and Emma, had the brainwave of videoing it on their iPhone. And by Monday it had found its merry way onto YouTube, including a clear shot of me kicking, screaming and being escorted off the premises by security.

I can’t actually bring myself to watch it, but Sharon tells me it looks very well. In a Jerry Springer sort of way, that is. Anyway, that led on to a feature piece in the Evening Herald. Which, come Tuesday, had mushroomed onto page two of the Starand page one of the Mail. And by Wednesday, the story is everywhere. The unexpurgated version too; how Emma set me up as the fall guy, how she covered it up and how I miraculously happened to stumble on proof of this almost entirely by accident. How I’ve been offered my old job back, whereas she’s been let go for ‘personal reasons’. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Better than a soap opera any day. Dear God, no wonder it’s such a hot story; you couldn’t make it up.

My mobile hasn’t stopped, so unless it’s someone I know, I’ve taken to just ignoring it. And if anyone from the press calls me either at Channel Six or at Radio Dublin, I just politely but firmly say no comment to make and refer them back to Roger. No better man.

‘Jilted Jessie Returns to Primetime!’ is one banner that sticks in my mind. And I have to hand it to them, the reporting is astonishingly accurate. Facts are amazingly unblurred. But then, I’ve always maintained that there were more leaks at Channel Six than in a winter vegetable medley.