‘No, actually. I think your strategy of not letting him know why you left him is absolutely brilliant. So come on, take a photo of the two of us with big happy grins on our faces.’

‘I’m hopeless at selfies; I never do the right angle. I end up with a plethora of chins or a nose like Pinocchio’s.’ Nevertheless, Marie-Claire positioned her mobile phone to snap the pair of them.

‘Look, the march is nearly over, we don’t need to listen to the speeches, we know why we’re protesting. I was one of those women who had to travel for a termination.’

‘I know, Ella. That was so hard for you and Shay.’ Marie-Claire squeezed her friend’s hand, remembering the horrendous trauma her friend and her husband had gone through when they were told Ella was carrying a baby with a fatal foetal abnormality.

‘This brings it all back.’ Ella had tears in her eyes. ‘And it’s why it’s so important for me to be here to help protect other women from going through what thousands like me went through. And of course, poor Savita Halappanavar. She died because of the eighth amendment. We must never forget her.’

‘Savita won’t be forgotten, Ella, ever. She’s part of the reason we’re here,’ Marie-Claire said solemnly, and they walked along in silence thinking about the young Indian woman who had died of a septic miscarriage because she was refused an emergency termination, even though her pregnancy loss was inevitable and pending.

‘So you don’t want to stay for the speeches.’ Marie-Claire cocked an eye at her friend when clusters of chanting marchers began to fill up the square.

‘I do not,’ grimaced Ella. ‘To be honest there’s a couple of limelight hoggers and bandwagon jumpers here that are doing my head in with their patronizing shite,’ she, said crossly, catching sight of two of the more prominent social influencers hugging dramatically for the TV cameras. ‘Let’s hit McGrattan’s for a bit of grub and a bottle of red. My treat.’

‘ “Limelight hoggers, bandwagon jumpers!” God, you’re cranky.’ Marie-Claire laughed.

‘I am cranky, aren’t I?’ Ella grinned, leading her friend through the throngs.

‘OK, so tell me: why are you cranky?’ Marie-Claire asked Ella half an hour later as they tucked into the finger-food platter for two, the heat and conviviality of the bar a welcome respite from the bitter cold outside.

‘Teenagers!’ her friend said succinctly, devouring a portion of black pudding and apple wrapped in bacon. ‘They had a big row with Dad yesterday. A mega one, actually, about the referendum.’

‘What on earth made you get into a discussion with your da about that? You know his views. You know how hidebound he is where the Church is concerned. He’s livid that you’d vote Yes, to repeal, presumably?’ Marie-Claire had never liked Ella’s domineering father.