‘Out,’ I said firmly and for about the twentieth time. ‘Overdone, tasteless and, above all, not as funny as the rest of your material.’

‘But the gag about the Renaissance and the French toast should definitely stay in?’

‘One hundred per cent. Trust me, it’ll work.’

By 7 p.m., nerves eventually get the better of her and she decides to make her own way into the Comedy Cellar, to clear her head a bit and ‘get in the zone’. Her phrase, not mine. Gas to think that she has yet to perform a single live gig and is already speaking the lingo like a pro, with a contract from the BBC tucked under her oxter. So off she goes, leaving the rest of us to follow in her wake, in time for the show.

Joan already has a little party going on in the TV room, with her ‘business partner’ (swear to God, I can almost hear her talking in quotation marks every time she introduces him). Yes, none other than Jimmy Watson, who I recognise from the night I was in the Swiss Cottage with Sharon. Chunky and florid-faced with a major eye in Joan’s direction, it has to be said. Anyway, between the two of them, they’ve invited a gang of their mates from the pub and things are just beginning to get into full swing. I don’t actually recognise anyone, but they all seem to know me and keep grabbing me to say things like, ‘Congratulations Jessie! Sure we never doubted but that you’d be back on telly in no time!’ Everyone’s here for a few drinks before we head into town for the gig, and as Joan has me on drinks duty I’ve the path worn down running back and forth from the kitchen to the TV room. Honest to God, every trip I make, I’m more and more laden down with trays full of Chardonnay and dips from Tesco’s, all served in the good Christmas Day crystal, as per madam’s explicit instructions.

Anyway, Joan’s in full swing, holding court and boastfully announcing to the room that IPrayForYou.com will shortly be up and running and that they’re all invited to the official launch, when yet again, the doorbell rings. Sharon’s still upstairs lashing on make-up, so I go to get it. It’s Matt, carrying two six-packs of Bulmers, Sharon’s favourite tipple, God bless him. I hug him and tell him to go on through to the kitchen, while I race upstairs to tell Sharon he’s here. No harm to keep him out of Joan’s way; the form she’s in, I wouldn’t put it past her to introduce him to everyone as her son-in-law elect. Particularly given that whenever poor Matt’s around, she has a tendency to act like Mrs Bennet from Pride and Prejudiceon overdrive.

I hammer on the bedroom door and yell at Sharon to come downstairs, but instead of telling me she’s on the way, she asks me to come inside and close the door behind me.

‘What’s up?’ I ask.

‘Tonight’s the night,’ she says, all firm and decisive.

I look at her blankly thinking, what exactly? That she’ll sleep with him for the first time, announce she’s pregnant, tell us she’s engaged? What?

‘The night I’m dumping Matt,’ she finishes.

I slump onto the bed beside her. ‘Sharon, you can’t do that, he’s so knickers mad about you! My God, he even arrived here with two six-packs for you and the poor guy doesn’t even drink.’

‘Jess, I’m very grateful to you for everything you’ve done, but you’re not talking me out of this. He was my “in case of emergency, please break the glass box” guy but now I’ve my sights set on better things.’

‘But he’ll be devastated!’

‘He bridged the gap between arsehole and Holy Grail and now it’s time for me to move on.’

I barely have time to respond, because next thing Joan is screeching up the stairs that there’s a visitor just arrived for me.

So he did come then. I wasn’t certain if he would and frankly wouldn’t have been in the least surprised if I’d got a phone call to say he couldn’t make it; that some last minute ‘business emergency’ had come up. On a Sunday evening. But there’s no mistake; by the time I get downstairs, there’s Sam sitting in Maggie’s armchair, the seat of honour, being fussed and preened over by Joan who looks as if she’s just seen the messiah. My instinct is to race in to rescue him, but he seems to be doing perfectly fine by himself. He’s introduced himself to everyone, Joan included and is now sitting back, allowing himself to be waited on hand and foot.

‘And that’s your Bentley parked on the road outside, is it?’ a very red-faced and puffy-looking Jimmy Watson is asking him. ‘Must have set you back a fair few quid.’

‘Wouldn’t see much change out of two hundred and eighty K,’ says Sam, cool as you like, as the whole room looks suitably impressed. Then he spots me and bounds over, pecking me on the cheek. ‘Jessie, you look beautiful. So how come you never invited me here before? Your stepmother is the most charming lady I’ve ever met. And her house is so tasteful and elegant.’

There’s the tiniest edge in his voice that only I’m attuned to; a slight rise in register that Sam does whenever he’s taking the piss. Joan, however, is oblivious and giggles like a schoolgirl. In fact, she’s so taken with this guest of honour that I wouldn’t be surprised if she made a play for him herself.

‘Jessica dear?’ she says in her most put-on posh voice. ‘Do fetch Sam a nice Chardonnay from the fridge. And be sure to use the John Rocha crystal.’ A half-wink from Sam as I go into the kitchen to do as she commands, but then the doorbell goes again, so I trot out to the hall to open it.

I don’t believe this. It’s Steve.

I knew he was coming to the gig tonight with his family, but I sodid not expect him to call here first.

Ohgodohgodohgodthisisgoingtobeawkwardawkwardawkwardawkward…

‘Hey!’ he says, his face lighting up as he leans down to hug me. ‘So, did you miss me? Did Radio Dublin fall apart without me?’

I barely have time to answer though, as next thing, Sam is hovering at my shoulder, right by the open hall door.

‘Who’s this, babe?’ he asks, eyeing up Steve a bit suspiciously.

‘This is Steve, a very good friend of mine,’ I manage to stammer. ‘And, as it happens, my boss.’

Steve stands up to his full height, immediately recognising exactly who Sam is. He’s about a foot taller than him, but then Steve’s about a foot taller than the rest of humanity. ‘Yes, I know who you are,’ says Steve, more icily than I’ve ever heard him before. ‘In fact, I know exactly who you are. I saw you in the documentary about Jessie.’

‘Oh yeah, that’s right, I think I did appear in that. I was away on business when it was broadcast though, so I’ve never actually seen it. Besides, I’m not really someone who gets time to sit down and watch TV.’

‘You used it to plug your new book.’

‘Did I?’ Sam laughs, then through the open hall door, suddenly he spots a gang of kids all clustered around his Bentley, noses pressed up against it.

‘Jesus Christ, Jessie, look, those kids are pawing my car!’

‘Well, that’s kids for you,’ says Steve, sounding cold. Actually cold, which is so not like him.

‘Well, can we move them on or something? I’m afraid one of them might steal my satnav.’

Then, when the time comes for us all to go, once again, I’m in the gakky situation of having both Steve and Sam, one at either side of me, both offering me lifts.

Out on the road, there’s the Bentley parked right beside Steve’s humble bike. So what do I go for? Glass coach or pumpkin? Jaysus. Tonight hasn’t even properly begun and already I’m hating every second of it.

Nor do things improve when we get to the Comedy Cellar either. I try my best to collar Steve on his own to thank him for the offer of a lift and to explain that I just didn’t want to leave Sam alone when he doesn’t really know anyone, which is the only reason I got into the car with him, but I don’t get a chance. The place is jam-packed and so crowded that we’re doing well to even get a table together.