But one of the others might. I checked the catalogue for the names of the youth jury members and saved them to my file. One of them was Lorcan Lucey from Presentation Brothers, a famous rugby school universally known as ‘Pres’, though bespectacled skinny Lorcan didn’t look like he spent much time on the pitch. The second boy was Patrick McCarthy from a boys’ school in Bishopstown. Patrick was open-faced, athletic and enthusiastic-looking, like the star player on the school hurling team.

With a sigh, I opened a new document labelled ‘Other Possibilities’ where I typed two names: Colm O’Donnell, art teacher and Joey O’Connor, ex-boyfriend. Then I left my study and went upstairs to my bedroom. It was after two. I needed to get ready. Davy would be around to pick me up soon.

I had intended to wash my hair but a mane like mine takes too long to dry and I hadn’t left enough time. I pinned it up and went for a 30-second shower, keeping my head out of the water. Then, quickly, I pummelled my skin dry and slathered on Summer Harvest body lotion that I’d bought in the Burren Perfumery in Clare the previous August. Next, I shook out my hair, put my head upside down, and sprayed on my old music festival staple, Batiste Dry Shampoo. I smelled nice and my hair didn’t look too bad, but at twenty to three I still had no clue what to wear. Eventually I settled on a purple seventies vintage dress, with a high neck and long sleeves, and high-heeled Mary Janes. And too much black eyeliner and mascara, forgetting that I was going to Muskerry Castle for work reasons, and not on a date with Davy Keenan.

My phone pinged. It was Davy.

‘Your carriage awaits.’

Which probably meant that he was stopped in the middle of Barrack Street, blocking traffic. I’d better leg it.

But when I got to the end of the lane and on to Barrack Street there was no sign of him. I looked down the street, in the direction of town. No sign either. Then I heard him call my name. Parked to the south of the turn-off, he was leaning against his car, a black BMW. A drug dealer’s car, I’d teased, when he got it, asking if NA didn’t have some kind of a ban on black BMWs?

‘You’re only jealous, Finn,’ he’d said at the time, unfazed. And maybe I was, a little, though cars don’t interest me usually. Davy gave a little nod and a smile and I strolled towards him, trying to look casual, which was not easy when he looked this good, sandy hair and beard, six foot two, slim but strong, wearing a vintage brown Donegal tweed jacket over jeans and an open-necked white and blue cornflower print shirt.

‘You look nice,’ Davy said.

‘So do you,’ I said.