Which set Ulysses to wondering why. Another lady love on the scene already, whom he was anxious to rush home to? Surely a catch like Sam need only pick and choose from a bevy of beauties available to him? But my source hinted to me that the real reason is far more romantic; Sam simply missed his ex-girlfriend and was unable to enjoy a holiday so far from her sparkling company. So, who knows, maybe Ms Woods is a little luckier in love than she is with work. Could news of possible reconciliation be in the air? One thing is for certain, wherever Ms Woods has been shielding herself away from the public gaze lately, she may very well find herself on the receiving end of a phone call from a contrite and lonely ex any time now. My Deepthroat assures me that a reunion appears to be little short of imminent. Just remember, you read it here first.

Chapter Ten

The really critical thing here is for me to stay utterly calm. Zen-like, if you will. Because this is a clear-cut, A or B situation. Either Sam cut his holiday short to rush back and beg me for a reconciliation, or…in fact, no, there is no B. Because Sam already seeing someone else, so soon after we broke up is just completely unthinkable. In fact, maybe in a weird way, we actually needed this time apart so we could both realise just how much we mean to each other. Or rather, maybe Sam needed this time out to cop onto himself, because while he might well be on his way to becoming the next Richard Branson, like most men, he’s a complete gobshite when it comes to matters of the heart. And if all the daytime TV I’ve been watching recently has taught me anything, it’s this: there is only one impossibility in life and that’s trying to keep two soulmates apart (thank you, Oprah). So basically, all I have to do is sit tight and wait for the phone to ring.

Which it will. Course it will. I mean, it said so in the paper. ‘A reunion is little short of imminent.’ That’s what it said. I’m guessing that the ‘mole’ referred to was either Nathaniel or Eva because come on, I mean who else could it be? I called them, got no response, left a few messages for each of them, then gave that up as a bad job. Because, let’s face it, I have FAR bigger things to focus on, don’t I? The main thing is for me not to be the one to blink first. At least, not now that the tide’s finally turning in my favour. I shudder a bit, remembering that as far as Sam is concerned, I’ve been acting like someone out on day release since we broke up, but that was then, this is now and I make myself one solemn vow. This time, it’ll be different. Now that he’s clearly on his way back to me, it’s not too late to try and regain some degree of self-respect.

The best thing, I decide, is to get on with my usual morning’s work and not even think about going near my phone, because everyone knows the watched phone never rings. So, like the model of patience and restraint that I’ve newly become, I deliberately leave the mobile at the very bottom of my handbag in the hall, and head into the kitchen to start my day’s work. Trouble is, I keep dropping things every time I think I hear a noise that just might be the phone. By 10.30, I’ve smashed two of Joan’s revolting peach side plates (with ivy leaves growing round the edges, gak, gak, gak) when I could have sworn I heard a text coming through, but it turned out to be a Mr Whippy van on the street outside. Easy enough mistake to make; my ring tone and the ice cream van are virtually identical and both equally annoying. Then, I let a china shepherdess I was dusting smash to smithereens on the floor when the front doorbell rang. (Which was no harm, actually; there’s so many of them dotted around the place, it looks like there was a mini Laura Ashley explosion in here.) Well, it has to be Sam, it just has to, I figure, nearly impaling myself on the hall table as I ran to open it. Who else could it be? Reasonable assumption, given that it would take a very brave neighbour to call here to Wuthering Depths, The House That Manners Forgot. No, he’s probably figured that there’s just no way of saying what he wants to over the phone, i.e., grovelling apologies and profuse expressions of undying love, you know yourself. Miles better just to call here and sweep me off my feet with flowers, champagne, the whole works.

But when I fling open the door, with my most ‘surprised’ smile hardwired onto my face, it isn’t Sam at all. Turns out just to be some guy trying to sell raffle tickets to raise money for the local hospice. I’m a bit deflated but quickly brush it aside. It’s only mid-morning. I have to be realistic; he only got back to Ireland yesterday, I need to chill out here and give the guy some time. He probably went straight into his office this morning to catch up with everything, but no doubt is saving the big romantic reconciliation scene with me later.

Just hope Maggie is back home from work in time to see it, hee hee.

Anyway, the point is that this time tomorrow, I’ll probably have moved into Sam’s house, with all my boxes, bin liners and all, and life will be rosy again. Course I still won’t have a job, but with him beside me, somehow that won’t matter quite so much. I certainly won’t miss sleeping on a lumpy sofa, I won’t miss Maggie and her never ending put-downs or Joan and her mood swings, but in a funny way, I will miss Sharon, who’s turning out to be far more sisterly than I could ever have imagined.

OK, you know what? Housework = crap idea. I’m way too jittery to get anything done, so to pass the time I knock on Sharon’s bedroom door and find her glued to her computer screen, tapping away on the NeverTooLate ToMate website. She’s on her day off and her plans for the day appear to be sit on arse in front of computer and find cute guys to wink at.

Perfect. Couldn’t ask for a better distraction. Plus there’s that smug feeling of gently guiding someone else towards love and romance, while knowing deep down that this time tonight, I’ll be the one with the boyfriend.

‘You won’t believe this!’ she screeches excitedly at me before I even have a chance to sit down.

‘I’ve news for you too, but you go first.’

‘I got up about five times during the night to see if any cute guys had messaged me and guess what? Seventeenmessages so far!!! Seventeen!Can you believe it? And the best bit is I never even had to go outside the front door to meet them! Didn’t even need to shoehorn myself into a pair of Spanx or put on make-up or anything. You’re a bloody genius, Jessie Woods. Why didn’t I sign up for this internet dating lark years ago?’

She’s still in her pyjamas and, I can’t help noticing, is so animated she’s forgotten to even come downstairs for her normal breakfast of leftover pizza.

‘That’s fab!’ I say, pulling out a chair and plonking myself down beside her. ‘OK, so let’s scroll through all your messages and then start eliminating all the eejits from the eligibles.’

‘Good plan. Hey, get a load of your man here; I think I might end up deleting him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because how could I ever bring him back to this house with Maggie sitting here? You know what she’s like; her favourite hobby is slagging off visitors.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘For feck’s sake, look at his photo, will you? If a fella is covered in bruises and has most of his front teeth missing, then the chances are he’s a bit sensitive to criticism. Maggie would start having a go at him and he’d end up annihilating her.’

‘Well, I know we shouldn’t reject anyone based on their photo at this point, but his profile doesn’t exactly scream “hopeless romantic” either, now does it?’

We both read it together, then crack up giggling.

‘STOCKY, 30, SHAVED HEAD, INTO HEAVY METAL SEEKS SIMILAR FOR RAW, HOT FUN.’

‘Can I delete this one here?’

‘What’s wrong with him?’