‘How’s it going out there, Dublin?!!!’ his raspy voice calls into his microphone and it’s enough to put the crowd into hysterics again. The audience is a mixture of men and women, of young and old, and Tom Farley has every single one of them eating out of his hand. He wears a faded, grey, low V-neck T-shirt, ripped at the neck, which says ‘Dublin, Ireland’ written in white. His arms sport leather wristbands and are more tattooed than I remember them ever being, and his shiny red electric guitar is slung over the front of his pale blue jeans. He looks like he has been sent from above. Being the front man of a band suits him so much more than being hidden behind a drum kit, never mind bluffing his way in a real estate office. He was born to do this. He’s a true star.

‘You might not know this,’ he announces, and again everyone goes wild before they even hear what’s coming next, ‘but I used to live here in this place known as the “Fair City”.’

‘Wow!’ says Sophie. ‘How the hell did we not know that!’

‘I came here when I was seventeen,’ he continues over the cheering crowd, ‘and I left only a few years ago to follow my dream. I was one of the lucky ones. I followed my dream and I caught it big time, but it was a bit of a bumpy ride to get this far.’

He strums on his guitar as he speaks and I notice his accent has changed just ever so slightly. The Irish twang that once put such a lilt on his native American tone has mellowed, but his voice still sounds like he’s smoked too many cigarettes with its husky, deep mood that could make any woman faint at his feet.

‘I had a band when I was here,’ he says, rubbing his forehead like he used to when he was in deep thought. ‘They were a bloody great bunch of guys.’

Oh God. Oh God, what’s he going to say next? Don’t name the band. Don’t name the band, please, Tom.

‘They were called Déjà Vu but I’m not sure anyone here is old enough to remember them? We were shit-hot if I do say myself.’

The audience erupts. Of course, they remember Déjà Vu. Local radio loved them. The Irish media courted them. They were almost a household name all over the country.

I feel Jack’s eyes on me, and then Sophie’s, and then Harry’s. I casually look up, trying to look as surprised as they are.

‘I think he was their drummer?’ I stutter, doing my best to sound like I don’t care.

‘That’s so cool!’ says Sophie.

They seem to have bought it. Thank goodness. But the worst, or the best, I’m not sure which, is yet to come.