‘Sharon, I know, I can’t believe it either. But it’s like he’s taken a pill to make him start saying and doing all the right things.’

‘Did he say he missed you?’

‘Says he doesn’t work without me.’

‘Well to hell with him. He dumped you. He’s not allowed to have feelings.’

‘I’ve told him how important you all are to me now. And that he’s got to win you round if he’s to have any chance of this working again. I mean it too. I’ll never forget the people who stood by me during the dark days. Even Maggie, in her own way.’

‘Well unless he buys me a Porsche and pays for me to have a facelift and liposuction, he’ll have a right job trying to win me over. Jeez, when will you learn to stop airbrushing history, Jess? Look at you; convincing yourself that you were just on a little break and that you’re all happily reunited now.’

‘Oh come on, just give him a chance, will you? That’s all I’m asking. You know, all those movies with Hugh Grant that you watch teach us one thing and one thing only: the path of true love never runs smooth. We all need obstacles to happy ever after. Well I’ve had my obstacle and now I want my happy ever after. What’s so wrong with that?’

‘Jessie, don’t kid a kidder. I was there with you that night when we broke into his house. I saw for myself what a prick he was. Don’t you remember? Outside the cop shop in Kildare, he dragged you away from us and was vicious to you. Swear to God, you were like a car crash victim afterwards. And then he just fecked off back to the K Club or wherever it was he was going and forgot all about you.’

‘I was kind of hoping that mightn’t come up. Besides, he’s changed.’

‘Oh yeah right. Because men always change.’

But she’s wrong. He really has changed and what’s more, I’ll prove it to her. His average call rate to me now is about ten calls per day and all he wants to know is when he can see me next. He even offers to wait until after my show, collect me and then take me home.

Of course, by ‘home’ he means his mansion in Kildare, so I keep turning him down. Because I’m just not ready to hop back into bed with him again like nothing happened.

Then, even more amazingly, when I tell him that I’m looking to rent a small apartment, he offers me the use of a penthouse he owns in Temple Bar. As luck would have it, it’s lying empty at the moment, as the tenant has literally just moved out.

‘How much is the rent?’ I ask, when he phones me up with this amazing offer.

‘For you, Woodsie? Zero.’

So I say no. Because never again will I put myself in a position where I’m under an obligation to someone with more money than me. I’m living within my budget now and there’s no turning me back.

Funny, but the more I reject Sam and refuse all his generous offers, the more he ups his game. He’s even picked up a bit on my habit of airbrushing history. Claiming he never liked Emma Sheridan to begin with, for one thing. That he found her insincere and always suspected that she was eaten up with jealousy of me. Utter shite of course. He was always perfectly charming to Emma whenever we were out with her and never had a bad word to say about her. But he means well, so I let it pass. More airbrushing about our break-up too: the ‘time out’, as he refers to it, did him the power of good. Cleared his head and made him realise how much I really meant to him all along. Which I desperately want to believe, so I do.

Next thing, he calls wanting to know my detailed plans for my next night off, which is this Sunday.

‘Why do you ask?’ I say, wondering what’s coming next.

‘Because I thought we’d do something special. To celebrate our getting back together.’

‘Sam, we’re not back together. We’re in negotiations. That’s all. Nothing more.’

‘OK, well then I thought I’d take you out to celebrate absolutely nothing at all.’

‘Well, as a matter of fact, I’m not free.’

Call me a bad bitch, but God I enjoyed saying that. After everything I’ve been through over Sam, it just feels so good to not be one hundred per cent available for him. At least, not any more.

‘So, what are your plans, Woodsie?’

I fill him in about it being Maggie’s big night at the Comedy Cellar and how I’ve practically sworn an affidavit to her that I’ll be there in the front row, laughing uproariously at gags I could say along with her at this stage.

‘Well then, I’ll come with you too,’ he offers.

So I agree. After all, this is the one night that everyone I know will be at, and I really do mean everyone. If Sam is serious about getting to know my family, then there’s no better occasion for him to turn up to. Maggie has half the Inland Revenue office going, Sharon’s asked most of the Smiley Burger crew, even Joan is bringing along a load of her mates from the Swiss Cottage. But if he thinks I’m about to make it easy for him, boy does he have another think coming.

‘You could also pick me up at Whitehall first, if you like,’ I tell him. ‘So everyone can meet you, up close and personal.’ On home turf. In Whitehall, or ‘the land of the ten-year-old Toyota’ as Sam always referred to it. Because, let’s face it, if he can survive being thrown to the lions like an early Christian, he can survive anything.

It’s weird. I should be dancing for joy on the rooftops but instead…nothing. Like I’m wandering aimlessly through some kind of emotional fog and can’t tap into what I really feel here.

Do I trust Sam again? Do I believe him when he says that this is really it, for good? The God’s honest truth is, I haven’t the first clue. Funny that I’m on the radio doling out relationship advice, yet when it comes to my own stuff, I can’t see the wood for the trees. Nor is the deep confusion I’m going through helped by the fact that the two people I’d ordinarily turn to aren’t around. Sharon, unsurprisingly, has written Sam off as an arch-arsehole and won’t even hear his name mentioned in her presence. And as bad luck would have it, Steve, my touchstone, is away until this Sunday, playing at a summer festival up in County Monaghan with his band.

After the show on Friday night, I treat myself to a highly extravagant cab ride home, my head spinning after yet another day and evening of call bombardment from Sam. Everyone’s in bed by the time I crawl back to the house, so I slip into our deserted TV room, take out my mobile and even though it’s almost 2.30 a.m., try calling Steve. Just to hear his voice. The phone rings out and eventually goes through to voicemail. But then I realise I haven’t the first clue what it is that I even want to say to him, so I hang up.

Why oh why, am I such a gobshite when it comes to men?

Steve, ever the gentleman, calls me back the next morning. ‘Hey, Jessie, you OK?’

‘Hi,’ I mumble back drowsily, still half asleep and still in bed, even though it’s well after 11 a.m. So good to hear his voice though.

‘I saw a missed call from you last night and got worried. Was everything OK with the show?’

‘Yeah, the show was…emm…fine.’

‘Hey, are you sure you’re all right? You sound different. Tense. Like there’s something on your mind.’

And that’s when I realise I can’t do it. Can’t tell him about Sam torpedoing back into the calm waters of my life, at least not over the phone I can’t. So, like the moral coward that I am, I settle for umming and aahing instead.

‘Well, if you’re sure you’re OK,’ says Steve, sounding unconvinced.

‘Fine. Honestly. Really.’

‘Then you take care. And I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Yep, till tomorrow.’

Chapter Twenty-Two

Come Sunday night and the only person NOT crowding out our tiny little TV room is Maggie, the star of the show, the lady of the hour. Crippled with nerves, she spent the day chain smoking one fag after another and counting down the hours until 8 p.m., when the contest proper starts. Either that or else bombarding me with demands like, ‘The Michael Jackson gags. Final call: in or out?’