Sometimes he would meet Catherine after rehearsal in one of these cafés, or in Lavery’s or in the Crown. Or sometimes in the Lincoln Inn bar across from the BBC where lawyers and journalists mixed.

If other members of the cast came with her, then he would have to endure long periods of silence as the rest talked with feminist bravado and cynically told each other the real version of what was happening – in politics and in theatre. As he listened to them talking, the distinction between both forms of human activity were constantly blurred. Everything could be told in terms of performance.

Always they referred to the “Hidden Agenda”. There was “A Hidden Agenda” in the politics of the theatre, in the politics of the BBC, in the politics of Northern Ireland. It was the secret stimulus that kept the conspirators busy. The “Hidden Agenda” was base camp.

One of the women said she’d seen one of his plays in London. “It didn’t seem funny to me,” she said.

“Jack is a realist,” interrupted Catherine.

“I thought the characters were playing at being peasants.”

“They were,” agreed Jack.

She hiccupped. “It was way too romantic, and intellectual.” She hiccupped again. “All those primates talking philosophy. I didn’t understand it.”

“Don’t worry,” said Jack, “the children’s version will be out next year.”

“How would you know –” and she waited for the hiccup that did not come “– what happens here?”

“Would you like me to slap your back?” asked Jack.

“I asked you how would you know what happens here?” With a particularly gracious yet hostile look she lifted her glass of lager and considered him.

“Who do you work for?” he asked.

“RTE,” she snapped. “I’ve told you that before.”

“Oh yes, that’s right,” he said.

“In fact,” she continued, “what are you doing here?” She gave a polite yawn. “Don’t tell me you’re here because of your art.”

“I came to study you,” said Jack, “as you have studied those out there, after your fashion.”

“He’s with me,” said Catherine.

“Oh, I forgot,” the woman answered and she smiled triumphantly.

“I think it’s time,” said Catherine, “we went.”

They’d taxi home and light a fire. As she changed her clothes she’d have stories to tell of directors and fellow actors and scripts that went awry. He would recount some of his day, leaving out any stupid things he might have done. Their sense of privacy would return. Since the moment they had decided to live together they had to lean heavily on imagination to see them through. The deliciousness would turn to obsession. Each looked forward with increasing anxiety to these few short hours together, and then, when they would meet, demons would take their place. The hours together seemed too short for them to establish each other’s identity again.