‘Who’s Wendy Wagoner? Is this yet another donor you’re using to farm fat for your forehead?’

If you stuck a potbellied pig in a pantsuit and gave it a bag of make-up to play with, it would end up bearing an uncanny resemblance to the woman who calls herself my mother. I mention this to her as well, as she’s stepping out of the Westbury Hotel, dressed like a woman who thinks she’s 20 years younger and 30 pounds lighter than she actually is.

She ignores the insult and goes, "You're probably wondering with whom I've been lunching."

I’m not even sure that’s proper English, but I don’t bother pulling her up on it. Instead, I go, “Judging from the hum coming off you, I’d say you’ve been lunching with your old friends, Gordon’s and Hendricks.”

I always lift my game when I’m around her, in fairness to me.

She's there, "I was lunching with Wendy Wagoner," and she lifts her eyebrows like this should actually mean something to me?

I’m like, “Who’s Wendy Wagoner?” allowing myself to become sucked into the conversation. I’m too nice for my own good sometimes. “Is this yet another donor you’re using to farm fat for your forehead?”

“Wendy Wagoner is in PR,” she goes. “She PRs people. And right now she’s in the process of PRing me!”

I’m there, “Why are you being PR-ed?” already regretting asking.

“That’s the exciting news. I’ve set my sights on winning a People of the Year award this year.”

"You set your sights on winning a People of the Year award every year. And yet you never win one. And there's a very obvious reason for that. I don't think I'd be alone in saying that you're my idea of actual evil."

She goes, “That’s why Wendy is helping me to improve my public image,” and then something weird suddenly storts happening to her expression. It’s as if the thousands of pulleys and levers underneath the layers of silicon and orse gristle that make up her face suddenly kick into life. I can see her top and bottom teeth. It’s like staring into the back of a bin lorry. That’s when I realize that the woman is trying to smile.

“You’re going to give yourself an aneurism,” I go.

She’s like, “Well, Wendy thinks I should show off my caring side a bit more – it seems to be what people want, especially in this day and age, when things are apparently difficult for a great many people.”

And it’s at that precise moment that this woman – this Wendy Wagoner – comes through the revolving door of the hotel, wearing a bluetooth earpiece and clutching an A4 Filofax in the crook of her orm. She’s, like, blonde, mid-40s, with loads of make-up and a slight underbite.

I think what I'm trying to say is that I probably would if it came up in conversation?

“Who’s this?” she goes, looking me up and down.

I'm like, "Yeah, no, I'm her son? The name's Ross."

Wendy's like, "Her son? Fionnuala, you never told me you had a son!"

I can’t tell you how much that hurts.

"Well," the old dear tries to go, "it never occurred to me that having a son was important, especially in the context of all my other achievements."

“That’s what she said to the midwife,” I go, “five minutes after she delivered me.”

“Delivered me,” Wendy goes.

That's the other thing I have to tell you about this woman. She's got this really irritating habit of saying the last two or three words of every sentence as you're saying them? It's like she's too busy to wait for you to finish what you're saying – she has to do it for you. It's incredibly annoying.

I’m there, “The reason she wanted to keep me a secret from you is that I’ve got the goods on her.”

“Goods on her – hmmm.”

“For instance, I know that all of her so-called charity work was actually a racket.”

“Racket – yes.”

“I know she ripped off the ideas for all of her books and I know she’s got more rubber in that face than a focking bus tyre.”

“Bus tyre.”

“She didn’t tell you about me because I know where all the bodies are buried – and by the way I’m not even using that as a figure of speech.”

“Of speech, okay. I’m looking at him, Fionnuala, and I’m thinking where do we place him? As in, how does he fit into the story we’re constructing for you?”

She cocks her head to one side and she looks me up and down for about 30 seconds, puckering her lips and sort of, like, moving them from side to side.

She goes, “I suppose he’s handsome in an – I don’t know – a big, rugby idiot kind of way. A lot of girls like that kind of thing. I suppose if we could get him to go to some of these charity events I’ve been telling you about, as a kind of chaperone to you. Fionnuala O’Carroll-Kelly, loving mother – it’s the kind of thing that might play well, especially if we can get pictures into some of the social columns.”

“You’re actually dreaming,” I go, “if you think I would be seen in public with that bet-down horse-beast.”

“Horse-beast, yes. I think it’s something we should definitely consider, Fionnuala.”

I’m like, “Yeah, dream on,” and I go to walk away. That’s when the old dear all of a sudden goes, “Did you borrow my car, by the way?”

I’m like, “Yeah, I borrowed your cor. So-called. It was to drive out to Ronan’s gaff. I wouldn’t bring my own cor out there. I value it too much.”

"Well, I got a notice in the post yesterday to say that I had four penalty points."

“Yeah, no, there were speed cameras everywhere that day. Suck it up.”

"But they're not my points."

“Well, you’re going to have to take them. My licence is nearly full.”

Wendy Wagoner smiles. She goes, "This is what we in the PR business call leverage. I'll send you a schedule, Ross, of the various events you'll be attending with your mother over the coming weeks."

I’m like, “This is basic blackmail.”

And she goes, “Blackmail, hmmm.”