‘Come on,’ said Laura. ‘We’re going to the pub.’

Monica looked at her quizzically. ‘Are we? Are you sure?’

Aware she was behaving out of character, and that this was probably caused by alcohol as much as anything, Laura made her case. ‘I know we’ve had more than enough to drink and I’m worn out and should probably go home but I’m not ready for the evening to end just yet.’

‘But, Laura!’ Monica was amused as well as surprised. ‘We’ve had a long day. He’s doing another gig tomorrow.’

Laura shook her head. ‘It’s hard to explain but I need to ask him my big favour now, before I lose my nerve.’ She paused, wondering how to express her feelings about Dermot without sounding completely deranged. ‘I sort of feel fired up for it and I know the feeling won’t last.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Monica. ‘Although it’ll be hard to get near him.’

‘I know.’ She just stopped herself telling Monica that even watching him drink pints with several dozen people between her and him would be good. Being sensible could wait until she was back in England. Here, she didn’t want to miss a minute of him, even if she could only look at him across a crowded room. Seduced by the romance of the place, the beauty of his writing, the charm of his voice, she felt as if she was in another world, one sprinkled with fairy dust, she didn’t want that feeling to end. An enchanted evening, very different from the one in the song, had already begun.

Not all the audience went to the pub afterwards, in fact Laura saw several dozen of them scattering into the darkness, but there was still a stream of people to follow through the narrow streets to the village local. It was a long, low building that seemed to occupy the width of several shopfronts. It was still going to be a crush.

The smell of the turf fire was the first thing that hit them as they fought their way in. The bar was just visible and behind it could be seen at least three young men, pulling pints, pouring whiskey and handing over change with astonishing speed and accuracy.

Laura kept her quarry in her sights, wondering if this made her a stalker, or just a fan. Because he was so tall, she could follow him as he wove through the crowd in the main bar to where someone was gesturing to a pint glass of black fluid that had been ordered for him. The pub seemed to consist of several small wooden rooms; the now illegal nicotine had stained the walls to a warm brown. Her moment had come. It would have been easier to have ducked out of the way into one of the side rooms, but she was determined not to lose sight of him now.