Laura watched him dispose of most of what she assumed was porter in one draught. She leant in to Monica to ask if she thought ‘a pint of plain’ meant porter.

Monica, who had no literary references to worry about, shrugged, struggling to make herself heard over the noise. She said, ‘We’ve got to get nearer to him. You can’t ask him to come to the festival from here.’

Dermot was obviously in full flow, talking, laughing, gesturing with his glass that had somehow got refilled.

Laura’s habitual reticence returned with a vengeance. The thought of actually talking to her hero was suddenly too daunting. ‘Well, he’s not going to say yes, is he?’ Laura shouted. ‘There’s no point! Let’s just have a quick orange juice or something and then go back.’

Monica was not having this. ‘You’ve got us to the pub, you must complete your mission. You can’t travel all this way and not. Follow me.’

With the skill Laura had admired before – a smile here, an ‘excuse me’ here, and a couple of times, a very suggestive wink – Monica got through the throng and to her destination.

Laura hurried after her, smiling and ‘excuse me-ing’ in her wake, not daring to hang back in case she got separated from Monica for ever.

‘Hello, Dermot!’ shouted Monica. ‘I’ve got someone here very anxious to meet you.’

Laura cringed. ‘Hello!’ she said, trying to smile. Now she was up close, she could clearly she that Dermot was even more attractive than he had been in his author photo of fifteen years ago. His hair and eyelashes were just as curly but there was a definition about his features now, lines and shadows that proclaimed him a man and not a boy.

‘Hello,’ Dermot said back and then crinkled his eyes slightly in thought. ‘Weren’t you at the gig? I think I noticed you there in the corner.’

‘Really?’ This time her smile was spontaneous and completely incredulous. She chuckled, pleased her anti-Blarney device worked as well as any girl’s although she thought so highly of him. There was no way he could have spotted her in that crowd.

‘No, I did. I saw you with your tangled curls and your slightly red nose.’

Her hand went up to it. ‘Is it red?’ She knew about the tangled curls. She hadn’t packed her straighteners and her hair had responded to the sea air in its usual exuberant fashion.

‘A little, but to be truthful, I didn’t see that until just now.’

She felt herself blush, hoping the heat of the room would justify it. It was hot, and there were a lot of Aran sweaters about – they probably raised the temperature as much as the fire did. ‘I don’t know how you could have seen me in all that crowd of people . . .’