A slam of the bathroom door and the row continues, but in lower voices this time.

‘It’s like this,’ says Sharon, a bit more calmly. ‘I want a fella and I’m going to do my best to get one and maybe it won’t work out, but at least I’ll have tried. At least I’ll have got my arse up off the sofa and actually tried to get something that I wanted out of life, for a change.’

‘I do notjust sit here with my arse on the sofa night after night…’

‘Maggie, take a look at yourself, will you? There’s so much more you could do with your life. Jeez, you’re the funniest, sharpest person I know and you’re always saying that being a stand-up comedienne would be your dream job, aren’t you? You’d be amazing at it and what’s more you know you’d love it and you could do it in your sleep. But no, you’re content to just crash here on the sofa night after night watching repeats of the same programmes time and again. Well I’ve have enough. I want more.’

‘Hang on here a minute…’

‘Because if it’s one thing I have learned from having Jessie around, it’s this. These are the golden years when we prove our mother wrong. And that’s what I intend doing.’

Door slam. Exit. Just like in a soap opera.

I was standing in the kitchen, tea towel in one hand, the other hand over my mouth, hanging on to every word. But I could only think one thing. Bravo Sharon.

More news. About two weeks ago, Emma called over bright and early one morning. She rang first to see if I was free (Me? Notfree? Now there’s a laugh) so I gave her directions and an hour later, she was sitting at our kitchen table drinking coffee out of one of Joan’s gakky peach mugs. It was so lovely to see her, I almost had to fight back the tears. We’ve been in touch on the phone, of course, but it was just so sweet of her to take the time and trouble to look me up all the way out here in Whitehall.

She looked as gorgeous as ever, in one of her neat little newsreader suits with her usual pristine grooming. Tanned and golden too; she and her boyfriend Simon had just come back from a week in Portugal, where they’re planning to spend this Christmas. She invited me to join them, which was more than kind, but short of my winning the lottery between now and then, I’d say there’s zero chance of my being able to go. Bless her, she even admired my new redhead look. But as she chatted on about everyone and everything back at Channel Six, it was beyond weird being reminded of my old life. Of what might have been.

Anyway, she had a meeting recently with Liz Walsh, the Head of Television, and it’s looking likely that she’ll be given her own talk show to spearhead the late summer/early autumn schedule. Something primetime too, and no one deserves it more. Emma didn’t even condescend or patronise me by commenting on shall we say, my reduced circumstances, just kept telling me that somehow everything would work itself out and in the meantime, she was only on the other end of a phone if I ever needed her.

Ever the lady, she even chatted away to Joan, after she’d eventually hauled herself out of bed and come downstairs to discover a bona fide TV star sitting at our kitchen table. Needless to say, Joan instantly snapped into one of her better moods at the very sight of Emma and made a point of getting a few shots of her on her camera phone, ‘So I can show all the girls later on in work, don’t you know.’

Then, between the two of them, they came up with an idea for me to raise a few extra quid; finally selling the bag loads of stuff belonging to me in the garage. One of those gak jobs I’d intended doing ages ago but just never got around to. I think mainly because it would mean really saying goodbye to my old life, like cutting the very last tie. But on the other hand, I desperately needed the cash and when Emma said she knew of a second-hand clothes shop in town which only took designer goods, handbags and shoes etc., then gave you a percentage of the profits, it seemed as good a time as any to get cracking.

‘What a wonderful idea,’ Joan chirruped, looking fondly at Emma. She reckoned that if I was going to do a massive clear-out, then it would be the perfect opportunity for her to throw out a pile of Sharon and Maggie’s crappy old clothes too, which she could then leave down at the local Oxfam; a job best done when the pair of them were safely out of the house at work.

‘No time like the present,’ Emma said gamely, volunteering to give us a hand as she had the rest of the morning free and even offering to drive me to the second-hand store, seeing as how her car had a massive boot that held loads. So for the next hour, she and I ploughed our way through all my bin liners in the garage, ruthlessly purging anything that I had a reasonable chance of making a few quid out of. Prada dresses, Vuitton luggage, Jimmy Choos, the works.

Having Emma beside me was amazing; I really did my best to mirror her positive, can-do attitude and didn’t allow myself to wallow about the happy days when I actually used to wear all this gear, just kept focusing on the fact that I might end up with extra cash and not a minute too soon. The only things I held back on were a few jeans and tops which I definitely would need, a suit in case a miracle happened and I got a job, plus a few accessories like scarves and bits of costume jewellery which I thought Sharon might get some wear out of. In her own words, she was ‘reworking her look’, so anything I thought would look good on her, I kept. But nothing more.

I needed money far, far more than I needed memories.

Meanwhile, upstairs, Joan worked her way through Sharon and Maggie’s wardrobes and filled no fewer than four black bin liners with the more offensive and gakkier of their tracksuits, sweatshirts and jumbo-sized underwear. So by lunchtime, the three of us were all set to go; Emma and I to town in her car and Joan to the Oxfam shop down the road in hers. We loaded up both cars with the black sacks and went our separate ways; Joan practically making poor, patient Emma swear on the Bible to call back and visit us sometime very soon.

Now, you might think that was all very straightforward and simple, but like so much in my life, it quickly turned to disaster. By way of farce. Emma and I arrived in town at a store called Second Avenue and the sales assistant told me to empty all the clothes out on the counter so she could have a look. Which I did.

I stuck my hand into the bin liner nearest to me and out came…not one of my Prada dresses or a beautifully elegant Jimmy Choo sandal, but Maggie’s most revolting tracksuit, the one in bright Hubba Bubba pink. Panicking, I spilled out the rest of the bags all over the shop floor; same thing. Maggie’s horrible gusset tights, nighties belonging to Sharon with holes in them, knackered bras with hooks missing and knickers, long gone grey from years of washing. None of my designer stuff, not a single thing.

Which meant that somehow the bags got mixed up and right about then, every stitch belonging to me was sitting in Oxfam. Where I’d never get as much as a bean for it. I’ll never forget the horrified look on the shop assistant’s face when she politely but curtly told me that she was terribly sorry, but really this wasn’t the type of thing they were looking for at all. And later on, as we drove past the charity shop, sure enough, I saw a model in the window wearing my Marni evening dress and a pair of my good Manolo Blahniks. Emma even tried to make me see the positive side: Oxfam would now make a killing on my stuff and it would help all the poor starving babies in Africa, etc., etc. She was right of course, but I was still ready to sob my heart out with mortification and silent fury. The dress in the window had never even been worn. I could still see the tag on it.

Anyway, she drove me to my front door and, as I stepped out of the car, a few of the kids on the street recognised her and were over like bullets demanding autographs and photos on their phones. Then of course, our street being what it is, the neighbours had to check up on the commotion outside, so they all joined in, scrambling over each other to shake Emma’s hand, like she was visiting royalty. But she greeted everyone warmly, signed every single autograph and took on board every comment like, ‘Ah love, could you not put in a good word to get Jessie back on the telly again? She’s like a recluse here. Never even comes out for a chat, just runs to and from the car with a baseball cap and sunglasses on her.’