t may only be a BBC radio show where no one is going to see her, but as Vicky pulls on a skirt and flat pumps, shakes her hair out to give it some more body, checks her make-up in the bathroom mirror, she thinks of her mother and smiles to herself.

‘You never know who you might meet,’ her mother always says, and whilst, on the whole, Vicky tends not to listen to her mother, these words have been drummed into her so often it is now second nature to ensure she looks, if not her best, then certainly acceptable, before she leaves the house. Because her mother, she hates to admit it, is right. You just never know.

There was the time when she was driving her Beetle along Chalk Farm Road and she had spotted a parking meter and zipped over, jumping out to find the car behind had also pulled over. She had looked at the driver strangely, wondering if he had something to say to her, but he hadn’t said anything and she had shrugged and walked off, only to return to find a note on her car asking her for a drink.

That drink had turned into a five-month relationship.

There was the time when, again driving her Beetle along Park Lane on the way to a club, she had passed a Triumph Stag, the roof down, crammed with laughing men, one of whom had jumped out and climbed into her car at the traffic lights. She had slept with him a week later.

There was the time she had taken the train to see some friends in Manchester, and had started talking to the man who had come to sit opposite her, even though the rest of the carriage was practically empty. She hadn’t fancied him in the slightest, but he had become a good friend, and was now married to a girl that Vicky had introduced him to.

So her mother was right, you just never knew, although those times, those spontaneous, exhilarating meetings, hadn’t happened for a while, and every now and then Vicky worried that they’d never happen again, that you are supposed to have adventures when you are in your twenties but by the time you reach your mid-thirties the adventures stop happening: you are supposed to be settling down and growing up.

Vicky drives herself to the BBC studios in Portland Place and parks the car. She’s early, so she sits in the car listening to the show for a while before going in to collect her pass and wait outside the studio.

‘Next on the show,’ says the voice of Lisa Diamond, one of the presenters of the show, ‘we’re going to be talking about… wait for it, Jamie… speed sex. Yup, speed sex is apparently the answer to all my problems.’

‘Any sex is the answer to my problems,’ says a male voice with a soft Irish accent, one that Vicky recognizes and struggles to place as Lisa laughs.

‘Typical,’ she says, ‘although according to the papers you haven’t had a lot of problems in that area lately.’

‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to believe everything you read in the papers? Although in this case I would say believe everything. Particularly the story about me and Angelina Jolie –?’

Lisa’s slightly sardonic voice interrupts him, ‘So, coming up after this we’ll be talking about speed sex between Jamie Donnelly and Angelina Jolie, oh and we’ll have the features director of Poise! on to tell us why we’re all raving about speedy sex, although I’m sure Jamie will do a perfect job all by himself.’

‘Careful, you’ll get me sued,’ Vicky hears Jamie’s voice in the background as Damien Rice’s haunting tones fill her car, and she quickly checks herself in the mirror before getting out. Shit. Jamie Donnelly. She had no idea he’d be on the show and all of a sudden she starts to feel slightly nervous. Jamie Donnelly! The star of Dodgy, a comedy sketch show that started small on BBC2, swept the boards at the British Comedy Awards, and is now the show that everyone’s talking about, phrases being repeated in pubs all over the country, amidst much laughter.

All it takes is a raised eyebrow and a ‘Not in my back yard, missus,’ for a roomful of people to start cracking up. Or an ‘Is that your dog or are you just pleased to see me?’

Jamie Donnelly: Irish, twinkly, usually made to look horrendously ugly in most of the sketches, his teeth blacked out, or dressed as a baby, or a homeless man with a luxury home in the doorway of WH Smith’s on the Strand, has become an overnight star, not least because he is also the writer and producer.

A regular guest on various radio and TV shows, Vicky never understood what all the fuss was about until she switched on the TV one night and happened to catch Jamie Donnelly being interviewed by Jonathan Ross, and all at once she got it. She sat in her living room, all by herself, shrieking with laughter until her face actually hurt.

Jamie Donnelly hadn’t been in her consciousness at all until that night, but since then she had seen his name everywhere. He’d been linked with every gorgeous single woman in London, and a couple from overseas who had just been visiting, including, allegedly, Angelina Jolie, from whose hotel he had been spotted emerging in the early hours of the morning.

But what had really done it for Vicky, what had sealed the deal as it were, in turning Jamie Donnelly into her number one crush, was when Deborah had phoned her at work one day and offered her an interview she had done with Jamie Donnelly.

‘I can’t believe you interviewed Jamie Donnelly,’ Vicky had said. ‘I love him! I wanted to interview him.’

‘Sorry,’ Deborah said. ‘But I managed to get him on his own at a film do last week and he gave me half an hour. I’ve got some great quotes about being single, the womanizing, what he really wants out of life. A lot of stuff he’s never talked about before. I was going to give it to the Mail, but I thought Poise! would pay more…’ They both laughed, knowing that no one paid more than the Mail, but also knowing that half the time the Mail never actually printed the story, and Deborah wanted her byline in print more than she wanted the money.

‘So what was he like?’ Vicky asked. ‘I have to tell you I’m deeply jealous. I really do think he’s gorgeous.’

‘The funny thing is I didn’t think he was gorgeous before I met him, but he does that thing where he completely focuses on you and makes you feel like the only person in the room, and he kind of nods earnestly at everything you say, and I have to be honest, I do understand why all these women fall head over heels. He’s also kind of flirty which is always nice. If I wasn’t happily married…’

Vicky sighed. ‘Oh God. Stop. Be still, my beating heart.’

‘Well he does say in the interview he’s ready to settle down.’

‘Okay, now you got me. Send it over now and I’ll have a look. Maybe we can set up a photo shoot to go with the piece and I’ll go along to style it. Christ, I’ve got to be able to meet him somewhere, I’m Features Director of Poise!, for heaven’s sake, I meet celebrities all day every day.’

‘And I thought you were jaded by now?’

‘Oh I am, I am. Just not when it comes to Jamie Donnelly.’

*

But what had really affected Vicky, turned her minor silly crush into a series of full-on fantasies, had been the interview itself. Jamie had said that despite his reputation for being a womanizer, what he really wanted was to settle down. He dreamt, he said, of a house in the country, with children and big dogs everywhere, of finding the one woman who would make him happy for the rest of his life.

So Vicky decided she would be that woman. He was, after all, the same age as her, and even if he did tend to be photographed with young bimbettes, that didn’t necessarily sound like what he wanted. No, surely what he really wanted, really needed, was a thirty-five-year-old successful, intelligent features director of a magazine; someone who wasn’t all that great at cooking but who would be willing to learn; someone who shared his dreams, who would bring him cups of tea while he sat in his office off the kitchen writing wonderful comedy scripts.

And thus began a series of fantasies: Vicky and Jamie (even the pairing of their names sounding perfect), their children Lola and Milo, their deerhounds Fitzroy and McHairy, their friends, their profiles in Hello! with photographs of the happy couple in their cosy country home.

Meanwhile, Vicky hadn’t ever met him, hadn’t even come close to meeting him, and her fantasies of a perfect happy ever after with Jamie Donnelly had slowly faded to fantasies of a perfect happy ever after with a tall, faceless stranger.

And now here he was, a guest on the radio show that she wasn’t even supposed to have been on. Could this, she thinks, as she tries to swallow her nerves, finally be fate working in her favour at long last?

Vicky is ushered into the studio during a song. Lisa smiles and waves from her position on the other side of the console, and Jamie Donnelly – Jamie Donnelly! – leans over and shakes her hand.

And Vicky thinks she is going to be sick.

Thankfully she gathers herself enough to be ready when the song finishes and Lisa gaily announces, ‘My next guest’s dream night of passionate sex lasts roughly eight minutes, and she says that most married women agree with her. Vicky Townsley, welcome to the Lisa Diamond Show.’

Vicky’s mouth drops open as a deep flush covers her cheeks. It has just been announced on national radio that she enjoys sex for eight minutes, which is a complete lie, there has been no mention of the fact that this was work, that she’s from Poise!, and meanwhile Jamie Donnelly is sitting next to her watching her mortification and is cracking up laughing.

‘So, Vicky, tell us why speed sex is such a fantastic thing, and what the rest of us who are spending a good hour on foreplay are missing out on.’

Jesus. Could this get worse? Vicky takes a deep breath and manages to compose herself. ‘Lisa, thanks for having me on the show, and can I start by saying I’m Features Director of Poise!, and this was a feature that we ran after we noticed the number of married women, particularly those with children, talking about sex and how quickies were all they had the energy for.’

‘I think what she’s trying to say is that her shags last longer,’ Jamie laughs.

‘I’m not actually married,’ Vicky smiles, ‘so my shags are not up for discussion.’

‘Oh go on.’ Jamie raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re here, we’re talking about sex. I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.’

Vicky just stares at him. Is he flirting with her? Is she imagining this? And more to the point, what kind of a conversation is this to be having on national radio, even if it is a hip, late-night show that gets away with practically everything. Her mother could be listening to this, for God’s sake.

‘My mother could be listening to this, for God’s sake,’ she says, shaking a finger at him. ‘And I’m not here to talk about my sex life. Although if you want to reveal a few details about Angelina Jolie,’ at this point she raises an eyebrow back at him, ‘please, be my guest.’

‘Er, excuse me?’ Lisa interrupts. ‘But you’re both my guests, and I want to hear a bit more about speed sex. Vicky, ignore Jamie, and tell us about what Poise! magazine found during research for the article.’

To Vicky’s immense surprise she manages to be articulate, quick-thinking, and even quite funny. The chemistry between the three of them works better than the producer has expected, and quips and puns fly back and forth throughout the show.

At nine thirty Vicky and Jamie are led out of the studio by the delighted producer, leaving Lisa to finish her show.

‘Guys, that was fantastic,’ he says. ‘Honestly, that was one of the best shows we’ve had in weeks. I could tell Lisa was having a great time too. Jamie, you were hilarious. Just hilarious. I love the show, man,’ and Vicky winces as she feels it coming. Please don’t say it, she thinks, please don’t say it, but sure enough the producer closes one eye and with a grin says, ‘Not in my back yard, missus,’ then shoves Jamie playfully on the arm as Jamie nods and says, ‘Great. Glad you like it. Thanks again,’ before turning to Vicky and surreptitiously rolling his eyes.

They walk over to the lift and as the doors shut Vicky’s heart starts pounding. What is she going to say? She’s in the lift with her number one crush who has definitely been flirting with her this evening, although that doesn’t necessarily mean anything because he does seem to flirt with everyone, and all of a sudden she feels like a teenage girl and doesn’t know what to say.

‘So?’ Jamie turns to her as he leans back against the wall. ‘You were pretty funny.’

‘You weren’t so bad yourself.’ Vicky smiles.

‘It’s a tough job but somebody’s gotta do it,’ he says, looking at his watch. ‘It’s still early. Do you want to come and have a drink?’

Oh thank you, God, Vicky silently prays, trying not to beam like a lovestruck teenager. ‘Sure,’ she says coolly, as the fantasies, those fantasies which had disappeared for the last few months, come back with a bang.

‘Do you mind if we go to Soho House?’ he says. ‘If we go anywhere else I just get hassled all the time, and without wanting to sound ungrateful, every bloke thinks he’s the first one to quote, and they all think it’s hysterical, and they all want me to think it’s hysterical, and sometimes I just want to shoot them.’

‘Nothing like a bit of honesty,’ Vicky says. ‘Soho House is fine. I haven’t been there for ages,’ she lies, having been there just the other night for a screening.

Vicky feels like a queen walking into the club with Jamie Donnelly. Everyone turns to stare at him, all of them pretending not to be impressed with his celebrity, but all of them impressed nonetheless. Those people already in the celebrity club, which includes a pop star, a couple of major actors, one comedian and one girl famous for being famous, all immediately come over to say hello, and with a sinking heart Vicky realizes that this isn’t going to be the cosy, romantic drink of her dreams, but that they are going to be surrounded by people all night, and even if they manage to get a table somewhere, just the two of them, people will be coming over all night to congratulate Jamie on his win at the British Comedy Awards.

‘Come on,’ Jamie says, after he gets the drinks, ‘let’s go upstairs where it’s quieter. I asked them to get me a table out of the way so we can talk properly.’ And he takes her hand to lead her out of the room and up the stairs.

I’m thirty-five, Vicky tells herself. I’m not some kid impressed by celebrity, even though Jamie Donnelly is holding my hand which is growing horribly sweatier by the second. I will make this work, she thinks, as they pass a girl who looks her up and down, checking out who Jamie Donnelly is picking up this time. I will make him fall in love with me.

‘I have a question for you,’ Vicky asks as they sit down.

‘As long as it isn’t what was Angelina Jolie like in bed, I’ll answer anything.’

‘It wasn’t actually,’ smiles Vicky, although that’s exactly what she was going to ask. ‘Do you like the way your life has changed since the success of Dodgy?’

‘Blimey,’ Jamie sits back in his chair and grins at her over the top of his glass, ‘I forgot you are a journalist. Are you going to be interviewing me all night?’

‘I hadn’t thought what I was going to do with you all night, actually.’ It comes out in a far more flirtatious voice than Vicky had planned, and Jamie raises an eyebrow.

‘Promises, promises,’ he winks, and Vicky quickly takes a sip of her drink and changes the subject, determined not to be just another easy lay, another notch on his bedpost, a pretty journalist to be forgotten about by tomorrow evening when he’ll doubtless be here with yet another girl, unless of course she manages to play her cards right.

‘I’ve got a question for you.’ He leans forward. ‘How come a successful, clever, attractive woman like you hasn’t been snapped up yet?’

Vicky groans. ‘Now you sound like my grandma.’

‘That doesn’t sound like your grandma,’ Jamie grins, ‘that’s my grandma.’

‘Her name isn’t Sylvia by any chance, is it? Blue rinse? Airedale terrier called Charlie? Addicted to Tunnocks caramel bars?’

Jamie laughs. ‘Close. Mine’s Phyllis. Purple hair. Black and white cat called, rather bizarrely, Sylvia. Addicted to butterscotch.’

‘Phew. Just checking we’re not one another’s long-lost secret brother and sister.’

‘Nice idea,’ Jamie says thoughtfully, taking out a piece of paper and scribbling something on it. ‘I could get a good sketch out of that.’

‘See!’ Vicky says delightedly, thrilled that she might have inspired a sketch in Dodgy. ‘I knew there was a reason we met. Maybe I’m supposed to be your muse! I’ve always fancied being someone’s muse. I could lie on a chaise longue eating chocolates all day while I give you great ideas for your next hit comedy show.’

‘Only if you promise to lie naked,’ Jamie says slowly. And Vicky blushes.

I will not sleep with him, Vicky tells herself, as they continue drinking, leaning closer and closer towards one another, the flirting growing more intense, the rest of the room, the club, the world having disappeared.

I am old enough and have been around enough to know that sleeping with someone you might very well want to marry is not the way to generate their interest on a long-term basis, she thinks, as she looks down at Jamie’s hand resting on the table, and suppresses an almost overwhelming urge to pick it up and place a soft kiss on his palm.

And oh God, he is so perfect. So perfect for her. He is just as funny as she had thought when she watched him with Jonathan Ross, although in a quieter and calmer way, not having to switch himself ‘on’ when not on television, not appearing in a public place.

I will be cool and hard to get, she thinks, watching the streams of young women walk past their table, trying desperately to get his attention, although thankfully he is, as Deborah has said, entirely focused on her, and doesn’t even look around.

But it is very hard to play hard to get when you are taken unawares by a soft kiss behind your ear. When you are sitting quietly, minding your own business, lost in a world of fantasies, waiting for your companion to come back from the gents, when said companion silently glides up behind you and places his lips just behind your ear, in a place that sends shivers down to your toes.

When you turn, shaken and surprised, and before you even have a chance to say anything his lips are on yours, but so softly and so fleetingly that when he sits down again, when you have a chance to catch your breath, you think you may have just imagined it.

‘Sorry,’ he grins like a naughty little boy. ‘It’s just I’ve been wanting to do that all night.’

And there isn’t anything that you can think of to say.

Later that night, when you are lying in your bed, the phone rings and you quickly reach over and answer it. Who would be calling you at two in the morning? But of course you know exactly who would be calling, the only person who ever calls you at two in the morning.

‘I can’t talk now, Daniel,’ you whisper. ‘It’s too late.’ And you put the phone down and turn to see if it woke Jamie Donnelly up. And it did, and Jamie Donnelly – Jamie Donnelly! – reaches out his arms and pulls you down to him, and you snuggle up tight, and just as you fall asleep you think how you never realized how wonderful it felt to have your dreams come true.

You wake up in the morning thinking it was a dream. There is, after all, no one beside you in the bed, but then you turn as Jamie walks out of the bathroom, and you think, shit. Why did I do that? Why didn’t I play hard to get?