I didn’t want to go on my own, so all I had to do was convince my best friend, Jacqui, that she, too, had a hankering for New York. But I didn’t give much for my chances. For years, Jacqui had been like me—entirely without a career plan. She’d spent most of her life working in the hotel trade, doing everything from bar work to hostessing, when somehow, through no fault of her own, she got a good job: she had become a VIP concierge at one of Dublin’s five-star hotels. When showbiz types came to town, whatever they wanted, from Bono’s phone number, to someone to take them shopping after hours, to a decoy double to shake off the press, it was her job to provide it. No one, especially Jacqui, could figure out how it had happened—she had no qualifications, all she had going for her was that she was chatty, practical, and unimpressed by eejits, even famous ones. (She says that most celebs are either midgets or gobshites or both.)

Her looks might have had something to do with her success; she often described herself as a blond daddy longlegs and, in all fairness, she was very hingey. She