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      Sweet suffering Jaysus, I only wish that were an exaggeration. But then that’s the one thing about having had a rough past romance-wise, I figure. It teaches you for the future. And with every mistake, you learn. You may well be humiliated, your heart might have been trampled on, but believe me, you learn.

      ‘So have you taken absolutely nothing from all this?’ said Joy, interrupting my thoughts.

      ‘OK, so you’ve made your point,’ I told her hotly, ‘but you’re wasting your time being so cynical right now, because this guy really does sound like the genuine article.’

      I couldn’t quite catch her response, as it was mumbled between mouthfuls of ciabatta, but it sounded a lot like, ‘worse gobshite, you.’

      ‘And have you forgotten that this “Andy” lives in the States?’ she added, changing tack with her mouth still stuffed. ‘So what are you going to do? Hop on a plane and fly transatlantic every time you’re going out on a date with him? Oh yeah, ’cos I can really see that one working out, alright.’

      ‘So the fact that we live on different continents is certainly an obstacle, I’ll grant you that much. But then you read his messages; he commutes back and forth to Ireland all the time! Besides, I’ve spent my whole life dating guys who lived within a one hundred mile radius of here and where has it got me? Alone on a Friday night and with no plans for the weekend, that’s where.’

      ‘Well call me old-fashioned, but I think telling downright porkers to someone you’ve just met isn’t exactly getting off on the right foot, now is it?’ she muttered darkly into her glass of wine.

      ‘I mean, look at the whoppers you’ve fed the poor eejit about yourself for a start. All that shite about being an investigative reporter on telly who loves her job …’

      ‘I do love my job …’ I trail off, a bit weakly. Or rather, to be perfectly truthful, I used to.

      ‘You work as a freelance researcher on an afternoon radio show. And of course, it goes without saying that you’re bloody good at what you do and you work round the clock for them. But come on, half the time, that crowd at News FM don’t even pay you.’

      I couldn’t even answer her back, mainly because it’s actually true. The radio show where I work, or more correctly that I used to work on full-time as a researcher, had kept me ticking over nicely and all was well until last summer when, because of drastic cutbacks at News FM, my hours got radically slashed back to just a handful a week. So just to make bloody sure I still cling tight to those, I’ve essentially been doing exactly what I always did; turning up at work same as ever and energetically pitching stories to my producer, except for approximately half of the salary I used to be on.

      Now I’ve actively looked around for other full-time, better-paid research gigs – my ultimate dream is to work as a researcher on hard news stories, which is actually what I’m trained to do – current affairs is my passion; day and night, I’m on the Irish Times website, devouring the news. But sadly this just isn’t a good economic climate to be a freelance researcher in.

      I didn’t mention this bit to Joy, though, but being online most of the day at least gave me a great opportunity to catch up on all my dating websites. Every cloud, and all that.

      ‘Just listen to me for a minute, love,’ said Joy, shoving her plate away, leaning back on the kitchen chair and rubbing her tummy like she just ate two Christmas dinners back-to-back. ‘Because I seriously think you need to wise up a bit. Stop jumping in feet first with guys you meet online and who you know absolutely nothing about.’

      ‘Ah come on Joy, you have to understand I’m just enjoying all the messaging and flirting with Andy so much! I think I really like him and come on, when is the last time you heard me say that about any guy? And December is around the corner. You of all people know just how tough that month always is for me, even though it’s been all of two years now. Is it so wrong that I don’t exactly relish the thoughts of facing into it all alone, same as I seem to do every other year?’

      And for the first time all evening there’s silence.

      But then I’d just played my trump card. The Christmas card. I know it and so does Joy. Long story and trust me, you don’t really want to know.

      ‘Oh hon, you’re not alone and you never will be,’ she eventually says, softening now. ‘Of course I know how rough December is for you. All I’m saying is … well, just look at you. You’re a gorgeous girl and a wonderful person and a fabulous friend. So why do you feel the need to embellish that and tell all these out-and-out lies about yourself? And all for what, to impress some stranger? Why can’t you just be yourself online? Trust me, any fella would be delighted to be with the real you, not this online façade called Holly Johnson.’

      Anxious for a subject change, I leaned back against my chair, then segued off into an only-slightly-too-exaggerated yawn.

      ‘You know what, hon?’ I told her, sounding just a tad too high-pitched. ‘It’s been a long day at the end of a very long week. OK if we leave the washing up till tomorrow? I think I fancy an early night.’

      ‘You’re going to bed?’

      ‘Emm … yeah.’

      ‘What? Now? Before Graham Norton? You never miss Graham Norton on a Friday night.’

      ‘Ermm, well … is that a problem?’

      ‘Not if you’re telling me the truth, it’s not,’ she said, black kohl-rimmed eyes narrowed down to two suspicious slits.

      ‘Course I am!’ I insisted, hopping to my feet and even throwing in a few eye rubs for good measure.

      ‘And you’re categorically not going into your room to log on to your iPad right now? So you can check whether or not Captain Fantastic has got back to you?’

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

      Ahem. But approximately two minutes later, I was back online. And checking. And boy was it worth the wait.

      Dear God, I distinctly remember thinking. Was it actually possible to feel like you’d finally met someone with serious potential after such a relatively short space of time? For all of half a second, I debated rushing back out to our living room to waft his latest emails right under Joy’s cynical nose, then realized it mightn’t go down particularly well. And instead, I got straight back to messaging Andy McCoy (Captain).

       Chapter Five

      Just a few days after that, I was back in work at the first 8 a.m. pitching session of the week; a fun, intense two hours which basically involves the entire Afternoon Delight team sitting around News FM’s bright, airy boardroom, lobbing ideas back and forth at each other and hoping against hope that your story would somehow be the one that would turn into a grenade and catch fire.

      It’s always one giant buzzing adrenaline rush and is by far my favourite part of the whole week. But then, as I’d learned from all my long years working there, there’s a sort of alchemy to a daytime phone-in show like ours. Often we’ll brainstorm an idea to death and leave the meeting convinced this would be a major talking point for the show, something that would really get the whole nation fired up, only for it to flop right on its ear and just fizzle away to nothing. Generally any topic that came under the banner headlines Anglo Irish shares, bank CEO’s inflated pensions, the Tea Party, or absolutely anything involving Angela Merkel.

      And yet other times, one of us will chance on an improbably daft story buried deep in a tiny corner of page seventeen in the Chronicle; usually something gross, like how drinking your own wee can add on years to your life. So we often toss it into the show more as a gag item than anything else, and you can be bloody sure that’s the story that would have the phone lines hopping for the afternoon and eventually end up trending on Twitter. And if you ever

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