‘Writing? You don’t need to write a song. There’s enough songs out there in the world already. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that people really only want to hear songs they’ve known before. I mean, don’t get me wrong, that was catchy, that wee hit of yours. But the punters, they go to a gig for one reason.’

‘For joy? Or for hope?’

He couldn’t quite place the look on her face. He sensed she might be being cheeky.

‘Aye, well, that too, that too. But the reason people go there is to hear those songs that mean things to them, to add in more layers on top of that. Songs that their mammies used to sing to them, songs that they remember being sung at parties growing up, maybe, songs for funerals, their dead daddy’s favourite number – they want to get that feeling again, they want to touch it and make it mean something else. Och, what’s that word – nostalgia. That’s why people want to hear music. I mean, I bought your wee album. I did. I ordered it specially over from the States and everything. I was – it was very good. I was proud. That’s some voice you’ve got there, you know? But the best song on it was that version of “Green Grow the Rashes” at the end. Beautiful. Beautiful. I played it to your stepmother, and she wept. Your voice. You’re a singer, love, and that’s good. You’re an instrument. You don’t need to be a songwriter, eh no? You’ve already got a beautiful talent to help light up people’s lives.’

The chips had arrived, steam rising off them, drawing their eyes and focus. Two tiny bowls, great big skinned potatoes chopped into two or three. Not crispy. She fell silent again, dipping potato into a tiny silver pot of something white. He watched the way she ate, delicate, with small movements. Like someone who wasn’t hungry.

‘Now that’s a chip, eh? Wedges, I’d call these. Not seen the like of this since I left the auld country. In the States, they’re called fries. Fries. And they’re skinny.’

She looked up, nodded, that half-smile, looked down. Christ, this was hard.

‘So then. Cliodhna. Divorced, eh? Welcome to the club!’

‘Well, it was about ten years ago.’ She shook the hand he’d proffered, though.

‘You want to see if you can make it twice, like your old man here. Got husband number two lined up?’

Why didn’t she smile, properly? Just these little thin things. He was funny. He’d always known it. Everyone said he was a funny guy. Scotty, they’d say to him, those big burly roadies at the after parties, in Austin and Nashville, you’re a funny guy.