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doing a terrific job.’

      ‘Oh, well thanks, Noel,’ I somehow manage to stammer, still mystified but secretly thrilled.

      ‘That piece about long-distance online relationships last week? Pure gold,’ he goes on, still concentrating on his own reflection, like he’s about to be papped the minute he leaves the building. We reach the car park level on the lower basement floor and the lift doors obediently ping open for him.

      ‘Anyway, here’s the deal,’ he goes on, striding out of the lift and on through the icy cold car park, as I struggle two paces behind him madly trying to keep up. ‘I think you’re long overdue a trial run out at Channel Six by now. You’ve worked hard and it’ll be good for us to try you out as a freelance journalist in TV land as well. You deserve a shot; you’ve earned it. So what do you say?’

      A weak, water-y ‘what?’ is all I can come out with, I’m so utterly flabbergasted.

      Channel Six? Is that what he just said? A proper telly gig? And one that even pays me properly? Because this, well, this would be it then. This is a proper break for me. The big one, what I’ve been waiting for and working towards all this time.

      ‘Now I’m not in a position to offer you anything permanent, you do understand,’ Noel turns to caution me as we finally reach his car, an ostentatious boom-era seven series BMW with all the bells and whistles on it you’d expect. ‘So it goes without saying that you’d still keep on working here at News FM too.’

      ‘Of course,’ I tell him, ‘I’d never leave the station high and dry like that.’

      ‘Good, good. Because all I can offer you right now is a try-out as a freelance researcher, nothing more,’ he goes on, car door open, hopping inside to the cushiness of the cream leather driver’s seat. ‘So at most we’re talking maybe one evening’s work per week on Tonight With … . I’m afraid, budget wise, that’s as much as is on the table right now.’

      ‘Of course, I completely understand—’

      ‘I’ll monitor your progress closely and we’ll see how you get on from there.’

      ‘Ermm, well … that’s really great, Noel. And thanks.’

      ‘Human interest stories, that’s what you really excel in, Holly. Particularly stories that appeal to women. You know the kind of thing I’m after; you could do it in your sleep. You keep pitching good stuff and I promise I’ll keep broadcasting it.’

      He closes the car door with an expensive clunk and zooms the tinted window down, so he can keep on talking.

      ‘So what do you say then? Can I count on you?’

      ‘Oh God, yes! Absolutely!’ I tell him delightedly, with my head swimming. ‘Of course I’m in! And thanks so much for the opportunity … I’m just so excited about all this.’

      ‘Good, good, good,’ he says, waving away my gushing gratitude. ‘So that’s all settled then. I’ll call my exec producer and tell him you’ll be part of the team on a freelance basis. He’ll organize a security pass for you and then you’re in.’

      ‘Fantastic!’

      ‘And, by the way, you start tonight.’

      ‘Sorry? What did you say? Tonight?’

      ‘Yeah, that’s right. I’m a reporter down for this evening; out with the bloody flu, can you believe it? On the same day as the Government Budget? It’s one of the busiest days of the year for us, so it’s all hands to the pump. Anyway, I’ll see you in studio, you know where Channel Six is. About 5.30 p.m. Just make sure you’re not late.’

      And like that, he’s gone. Leaving me with my jaw dangling approximately somewhere around my collarbone.

      *

      The aforesaid exec producer, an incredibly hassled sounding guy called Tony, calls me immediately afterwards. And so far, I think, so good. Tonight With … airs at 9 p.m., but the research team are needed in situ hours earlier, directly after the Budget’s been announced.

      ‘So … does that mean we’re free to leave at nine, as soon as the show goes live?’ I ask him, aware of just how bloody cheeky that sounds. On my very first day in a job where I should be trying to carve out my name, not skive off ASAP.

      ‘And why are you so anxious to rush off anyway?’ Tony asks dryly. ‘Prior engagement or something?’

      ‘No! Absolutely not,’ I lie, biting the words back and quickly reminding myself of just how much this gig means to me. ‘And I’m so sorry, for even bringing it up in the first place.’ Then just so he doesn’t mark me down as a complete skiver, I hastily throw in, ‘of course, it’s wonderful to get this chance to work with you all and I promise I won’t let you down.’

      ‘As it happens, I reckon I should be finished with you not that long after nine-ish,’ Tony sighs, ‘So I suppose you could slip off then, as long as nothing else comes up. But with live TV, you never know. It tends to be a bit of a rollercoaster.’

      OK then, I think, taking a nice, soothing breath. This is do-able. It won’t be easy, but I may just be able to keep all the balls juggling in the air at once. Having my cake and eating it is still very much on the cards. I can take this amazing, unmissable opportunity and still get to make my date tonight too. It’ll be tight, but I can do it.

      So I call the one and only number I managed to wheedle out of Andy a few nights ago, during one of our long, long, lazy night-time chats. The emergency number. The only-in-case-of number. The one that he was incredibly reluctant to give me, saying there really was no need as he’d always call me anyway. But I kept on at him and on at him till I eventually got the digits and I’m now bloody glad that I had the wit to do that much, at least.

      I call the number and call it and keep on calling it, time and again. But it just keeps clicking through to an annoying voicemail in an American accent saying, ‘we’re sorry, but the customer you’re trying to reach may have their unit powered off. Please try later.’

       Feckfeckfe‌ckfeckfeck.

      So instead I email.

       User Name: lady_reporter

       Hi Andy, it’s me.

       Look, there’s a bit of a problem this end, but I’m hoping it’s a surmountable one. A major work thing involving the Government Budget has suddenly landed on me and I may be a little late this evening to meet you for drinks. Like about an hour late. Or thereabouts.

       Will you let me know if that’s OK? Tried calling but your phone is switched off.

       So sorry about this. Will explain absolutely everything to you when we’re chatting, but trust me, as excuses for lateness go, this one’s a doozie.

       Holly x

      So it’s just coming up to 5 p.m. now and all going to schedule. I think, hope and pray that this might – just might – work.

      In the interim, I scoot home and switch on the telly so I can see the Minister for Finance reading out the Budget live. Meanwhile I’m frantically changing into a pair of low-cut jeans and a tight black cashmere sweater; a borrow from Joy which she made me promise to do her laundry for a full week in return for. Throw in the high heels I bought for our last aborted date last week and I’m all set to go. Not too overdressed for work, and yet not too shabby – I hope – for dinner somewhere fancy with Andy afterwards.

       5.15 p.m.

      I’m really up against the clock now and I’ve still got a scary amount of preparation work to do if I’m to be ready to work on an actual live hard-hitting TV show. So, with no choice in the matter, I splurge out on a cab to get me to Channel Six in Donnybrook where Tonight With … is shot. It’s a fifteen minute journey,

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