The bar was already buzzing. The usual volunteers had been supplemented by staff from the local pub, there not usually being much call for draught stout at the theatre. There was a young man in black jeans, black T-shirt and a ponytail instructing a woman in her sixties how to pull the perfect pint.

‘I’m not sure if I should drink,’ said Laura when Grant asked her what she wanted.

‘Oh, for God’s sake! You’ll never get through this sober! I can tell, you’re far more nervous than Seamus is. Have a large whisky.’

By the time he’d got back to their table, the place was packed. Laura was relieved. A good audience, and no chance of Dermot being able to spot her in the crowd. It couldn’t be better. But she still planned to sit right at the back, behind a pillar if she could find one.

Laura wasn’t surprised that Dermot was a star; he read beautifully, captured the audience and held them, totally enthralled. She was momentarily surprised that Seamus was so good. He didn’t play the bodhrán he’d been so miserable at, but the guitar. Very, very softly, he played traditional Irish songs: ‘She Moved Through the Fair’, ‘Down by the Salley Gardens’, ‘The Lark in the Clear Air’. And Dermot read.

In deep, dark brown tones he described a small boy watching through a window as his mother kissed his father and feeling excluded, a windy morning in spring, a blackbird’s song and a feeling of expectation that had no cause; falling asleep on a hard, leather-covered banquette in a pub while the wedding party caroused.

There wasn’t a cough, a murmur or a fidget to be heard. Even Grant was listening intently.

Laura knew she was what was popularly known as being ‘tired and emotional’ but the words were so evocative, so poetic without being sentimental, and the music was so touching that she felt tears smarting in her eyes.

She concentrated on keeping them very wide open and then occasionally blinking, so a big tear splashed down. This way she could blot up each tear with her hand, and hope no one noticed how overcome she was. Not that anyone would, she realised. They were all transfixed.

She and Grant were right at the back. On Laura’s insistence they had delayed going in as long as possible. She had said she wanted to get back as soon as the event was over, to prepare for her interview, and to avoid Dermot until she could face him calmly and unemotionally the following morning. Now she was even more glad she had. His reading had brought up every feeling, every longing – not that they were buried that deep beneath the surface, but with each sentence all her love and admiration for him rose up with renewed force.