One look at Madeline’s face confirms that she’s already seen it and I offer an apologetic smile. I watch her neck and chest redden as though the anger burns her skin.

The phone-in is all about families at Christmas. I listen patiently to Kate in Cardiff, who doesn’t want to visit her mother-in-law, and Anna in Essex, who hasn’t spoken to her brother for over a year and doesn’t know what gift to buy him. It’s all just nonsense, utter bullshit, all of it. These people have nothing real to worry about. It’s pathetic. The nausea bubbles up once more when Madeline talks about the importance of forgiveness.

‘Christmas is about being with family, whoever they are,’ she says, and I struggle not to vomit all over the desk. How would she know? She doesn’t have any family left.

When the show finally draws to a close, I feel exhausted, but I know there is so much more work to be done today. It’s my last chance and I’m just getting started.

Madeline is not a fan of watching television, but the one thing she likes more than the sound of her own voice on the radio, is seeing herself on a TV screen. As the face of Crisis Child, she’s required to do the odd TV interview, speaking on behalf of the charity, and today is one of those days. The news programme I used to be a reporter on have booked Madeline for an interview on their lunchtime bulletin, to talk about children living in poverty at Christmas. All it took was one phone call, pretending to be from the charity, offering their celebrity spokeswoman and the mobile number for her PA if they were interested. The rest took care of itself.

There’s an enormous satellite truck parked on the street, ready and waiting, down below. When I look out the window I can already see a camera set up on a tripod in front of the Christmas tree outside our building. As soon as the debrief is over, we head downstairs.

‘How much longer is this going to take?’ Madeline barks at one of the engineers.

‘Not long, just have to find the satellite and mic you up,’ says John, an old colleague of mine. He turns and sees me standing behind her, a wide smile spreading itself across his face. ‘Amber Reynolds! How are you? I heard you were working here now.’ He hugs me and I’m surprised by the show of affection. I make myself smile back and try not to look too awkward, unable to return the hug and willing him to let me go.

‘I’m good, thanks. How are the family?’ I ask when he finally does. He doesn’t get a chance to answer.

‘Why are you out here? Nobody wants to interview you,’ Madeline says, glaring in my direction.

‘Matthew asked me to come with you.’

‘I bet he did.’

John’s smile fades. He’s been working in the business for over thirty years. He’s met plenty of ‘Madelines’ in his time. Celebrity ceases to impress when you subtract humility.

‘If I could just . . .’ John fumbles with the mic, but it’s hard to find a suitable place amongst all the rolls of black fabric she’s wearing to attach the clip and hide the battery pack.

‘Take your hands off me,’ snaps Madeline. ‘Give it to her, she’ll do it. She used to be on television, after all; they’ll let anyone call themselves a journalist now.’

John nods, rolls his eyes when she isn’t looking, and hands me the mic.

‘I still can barely hear the studio,’ says Madeline, fiddling with her earpiece once I’m done.

‘I’ve turned it right up,’ I say to John.

‘I’ll go and see if I can adjust it in the van,’ he says, taking off his headphones and leaving the camera. ‘Do you mind?’ he asks me. I can see he’s glad of an excuse to step away.

‘Not at all… may as well make myself useful.’ I borrow his headset so I can hear the producer at the other end and cue Madeline when it’s time to speak. She’s not fazed and easily adjusts herself into caring-ambassador mode when she thinks the world is watching. The answers roll off her tongue, one lie after another.

‘I think that’s it,’ I say, taking off the headset.

‘You sure? Didn’t last long.’

‘Think so, they’re talking to another guest now.’ Her fake smile promptly falls from her face. ‘I’m sorry you saw that text earlier,’ I say.

‘Poppycock.’ She looks agitated and checks her watch.

‘If you do leave Coffee Morning, at least you’ll have more time for your charity work.’

‘I’m not going anywhere, I’ve got a contract, and charity starts at home. Did nobody ever teach you that? Is that gobshite coming back or can I go?’

‘I’ll just double-check that you’re done,’ I say, popping the headset back on. I can hear the programme loud and clear. ‘It must be rewarding. though, raising awareness of vulnerable children?’ We’ve had this discussion so many times before, I know her thoughts on the matter.

‘Vulnerable, my arse. Most of these kids are little shits and it’s the parents I blame. There should be some sort of IQ test to identify people who are too stupid to have children and then those with low scores should be sterilised. Too many stupid people populating the land with their mentally retarded offspring is a big part of what’s wrong with this country.’ I see John step out of the sat truck parked just down the street, frantically waving his hands above his head like he’s trying to land a plane in a hurry.

‘I think you can definitely go now,’ I say.

‘Good, about time,’ Madeline replies. I couldn’t agree more. She swivels on her heel and marches back inside the building. I follow her, unable to take my eyes off the battery pack still attached to the back of her giant black pashmina. She jabs her finger on the button to summon the lift, then turns to me and smiles. ‘And then there are the sluts who get pregnant by mistake, often with someone they shouldn’t. That’s why God invented abortions. Sadly, too many of the dumb bitches don’t have them.’ The lift doors open. ‘Are you getting in or what?’ I shake my head. ‘Oh, I forgot, you’re scared of lifts.’ She tuts, rolls her eyes and steps inside, repeatedly stabbing the button to make sure the doors close before anyone else can get in.

By the time I’ve climbed the stone steps to the fifth floor, it feels like I’ve missed an episode of my favourite drama. Everyone is staring in the direction of Madeline’s cupboard office. Matthew is in there with her and they are both shouting, so that every word of their supposedly private conversation is public, despite the closed door.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask nobody in particular.

‘Madeline’s mic was still on. They did a guest in the studio, then went back to her. Everything she just said went out live on national television.’

I do my very best to look surprised.

Before

Friday, 30th October 1992

Dear Diary,