Right then. This calls for, shall we say, a more subtle form of negotiation. ‘If I could have a further moment of your time,’ I say, sashaying towards her computer and standing with my dripping wet arm on top of it. ‘One of these days, you’re going to be going out on a date, with a straight, single guy. Correct?’

‘Straight and single means he passes the Sharon test, yeah.’

‘So, let’s just take a moment to think this through, will we? You’ll want to look your best for said date. You might even want to be styled for it.’

‘If you think I’m taking style advice from someone who spends all day every day in their pyjamas, you’ve another think coming.’

‘What I was getting at, dearest, is that I have a garage full of designer clobber downstairs. There’s Gucci handbags down there. And Hermès scarves.’

She looks up sharply.

‘And you might just care to see this season’s Louis Vuitton black clutch bag, which is lying downstairs in a Tesco’s bin liner as we speak.’

Now there’s a spark of interest in her eyes.

‘Not to mention a whole suitcase full of La Prairie face creams. And Laura Mercier foundations. And a mountain of Mac make-up.’

‘The stuff J-Lo uses?’

‘The very one. And it can all be yours…’ I’m starting to sound like a panto villain now, ‘…just for the lend of a few measly Euro.’

She sighs so deeply, it almost comes from her feet.

‘Right then. How much do you need?’

I try to hide my triumph. ‘OK, let’s see, cut and colour, plus a blow dry…two fifty should do it. Better make it an even three, to allow for tips.’

‘Three Euro? You could have got that much out of the loose change jar in the kitchen, you moron.’

‘Ehh…that would be three hundredEuro.’

For a second I think the girl is about to have an aneurism.

‘Three hundred bleeding Euro to get your hair done? For feck’s sake, Jessie, Cheryl Cole wouldn’t fork out that kind of money and she gets extensions!’

‘But you don’t understand, I’ve been going to Chez Pierre for years now, he’s like an artist, he understands my hair…’

‘Does that three hundred Euro include flights to France where I can only presume this gobshite Pierre is based?’

‘Ehh…no he’s on…emm…Dawson Street,’ I say in a little voice.

‘And you have the cheek to wonder how you got yourself into a financial mess?’

In the end, she grudgingly hands me over €15 so I can run to Tesco’s and pick up a Nice and Easy home colour kit in Champagne Blonde. And at that I had to promise her an entire La Prairie starter kit which sells for around €200, so not exactly the best trade in the world. Anyway, by 4.30 p.m., I’m washed, exfoliated, all made-up, back in my DVB jeans with a little top Sam always used to admire and all I have to do is rinse the colour out of my hair.

‘A child of five could handle Nice and Easy,’ Sharon assures me, standing in the bathroom beside me, playing with all the La Prairie she’s just looted from the garage. Like a kid on Christmas morning that’s focused on their toys and nothing else. ‘Jeez, tell you something else,’ she says, with her face pressed right up against the bathroom mirror, ‘this concealer stuff is seriously good shite. You can hardly see my acne scarring. OK, you can rinse your hair off now, Jessie, the time’s well up. You’ll be gorgeous and you’ll have saved yourself a fortune.’

She’s absolutely right, I think, shoving my head under the shower hose. Just think of the dosh I could have saved myself over the years just by doing home treatments! And they’re so easy too. Sharon told me what to do and I just followed her instructions to the letter. Doddle. All delighted with myself, I towel off my hair and stand in front of the bathroom mirror, prepared to be dazzled.

OK, my hair is now orange. Bright orange. Like a puppet in a kids’ show. Not red, not ginger…orange. Think of the worst ginger going and right now I’m trumping them. I’m even more carroty than Mick Hucknall. Or Prince Harry.

I’m rooted to the spot, staring horrified into the mirror, my mouth in a perfect ‘O’.

‘It’s ehh…a nice change, isn’t it?’ Sharon says hopefully.

‘Sharon. I’m about to have a longed-for reunion with my boyfriend. And I look like Beaker from the frigging MUPPET SHOW. And it’s YOUR EFFING FAULT!’

‘You must have left it on for too long,’ she says, reading the side of the box.

‘Oh, NOW you read the instructions?’

It costs me a brand new jar of Crème de la Mer to bribe her to go back to Tesco’s and get another colour that’ll tone this one down. Either that, or a pair of garden shears to cut my hair off with. In fact, the amount of expensive stuff I’ve given her would have got me about three sessions in Chez Pierre so this whole cost cutting lark is turning out to be a bit of a false economy.

Two hours and another home colour later, the orange is now a few tones lighter, still red-ish, but at least now I’d be able to walk down the street without people thinking that I’ve a traffic cone stuck on my head.

‘Very Nicole Kidman,’ nods Sharon approvingly, as she blow dries it for me out of guilt. ‘Strawberry blonde suits you. Plus there’s another advantage.’

I just glare in the mirror by way of an answer, still hopping mad at her for not reading the shagging instruction box.

‘At least no one will recognise you now. Which can only be a good thing, can’t it?’

Anyway, by 5.30 and with the hair crisis averted, I try calling Sam’s office and manage to get a hold of his snotty assistant, Margaret. ‘No,’ she tells me crisply, ‘Mr Hughes is in meetings all afternoon and can’t be disturbed.’ Her standard ‘kindly get off the phone, please’ clause. So I leave yet another message and I’d nearly swear I can hear a note of triumph in the bitch’s voice when she says, that yes of course she’s happy to pass it on. But her subtext is loud and clear; don’t hold your breath waiting for him to get back to you, baby. Well feck her anyway. She obviously didn’t read last night’s paper and hasn’t a clue about the latest development. Tell you something else, the minute I’m back with Sam, she’ll be out on her ear and with a bit of luck, propelled to the back of the same dole queue I had to suffer my way through.

5.45 and by now my nerves are ricocheting. I keep checking the phone every few seconds, but nothing. By now, both Maggie and Joan are home from work; Maggie’s in the kitchen and I can hear Joan clattering her handbag on the hall table downstairs, rattling all her china ornaments. Clearly in one of her bad humours, then. Then from the very depths of my mounting hysteria, suddenly…a brainwave! I don’t need to put myself through all the misery and torture of waiting, do I? Not when I could just borrow Joan’s car, drive to Sam’s house and wait for him there. Perfect! I am such a moron. Because no matter where he is, he’s got to go home sometime, doesn’t he?

But my cunning master plan totally hinges on Joan lending me her car a) because Sam’s house is in Kildare, miles away. Even if you got the bus to Kildare village, you’d still have an approximate fifteen-mile hike ahead of you. And b) a taxi would end up costing about €200, which, quelle surprise, I don’t have.

‘Well hello there, Joan, how are you? Wow, can I just say that you look absolutely amazing today. Nice…emmm…pant suit. Very…ehh…Jackie O,’ I smile as I pad downstairs, trying the softly, softly, kill-her-with-niceness approach.

‘Christ Almighty, Jessica, what on earth did you do to your hair? You look like Bianca from EastEnders.’

‘Oh, well, you see I’d a bit of an accident with a home colour kit…’

‘Oh I see,’she says, throwing me a look that could freeze mercury. ‘So in other words, you’ve been messing around with your hair all day instead of doing the list of housework I left for you? The breakfast china in the kitchen hasn’t even been washed since this morning yet. And one of my Lladro figurines has mysteriously gone missing. You’re not pulling your weight around here, Jessica, and I simply won’t stand for it.’