The band did start a little later and after the first few bars, Grant and Laura exchanged looks. The first number was a lament that should have had tears of sadness pouring down cheeks; it had the opposite effect. By the end even Laura, whose recent Irish experiences should have meant the words and the music was particularly poignant, wanted to giggle with embarrassment.

Monica sighed, drained her glass. ‘Anyone else for another drink?’

‘I’ll help you carry them,’ said Laura, struggling out from behind the table.

‘They’re crap, aren’t they?’ said Monica once they were at the bar.

‘Well, maybe they just need time . . .’

‘Don’t beat about the bush, say it like it is! They’re rubbish! Bugger! Back to the drawing board!’

‘It’s OK,’ said Laura. ‘We’ll find a CD with the right sort of harpy-fiddly-drummy-Celtic stuff on it. It might be easier in some ways. Rupert could practise.’

‘Don’t quite know when he’s going to have time to do that,’ said Monica. She looked at her friend as her turn to be served came up. ‘Do you mind driving home? I think I need another vodka.’

‘Do you mind coming home with me? Don’t you want to stay with Seamus?’

‘I really don’t want to talk to him about how it’s gone tonight. I’ll have to think very carefully what to say.’

While they were being served, Laura said, ‘But surely you’ve heard them play lots of times. You must have known that they weren’t all that good.’

Monica explained the reason she hadn’t heard them yet was because she’d been on tour, he’d been very busy and what with organising the music festival practically single-handed now Johnny Animal had disappeared off on ‘important business’ there just hadn’t been time.

‘Would it be wrong of me to dump Seamus because he doesn’t know which way up to hold a fiddle?’ Monica asked now.

Laura, her sense of the ridiculous finely honed, giggled. ‘Yes it would! Besides, you said he was lovely. Can you manage those bottles? I’ll take the tray.’

‘You’re not still on the voddy, are you, Monica?’ asked Grant as Laura doled out bottles of water and spritzers, giving the only glass to Monica.

‘God yes, I need something. Laura’s driving home. She’s so loved up she doesn’t need alcohol.’

A look like an interrogation lamp turned on Laura. ‘Loved up? Something you’re not telling me, Laura?’

‘It’s Dermot,’ said Monica.

‘Ye Gods! I might have guessed!’ said Grant. ‘I always knew she’d lose her cherry to a poet.’