Laure made to enter but the girl pointed to the notice taped to the door which Laure took to mean it was closed. ‘When open?’ she asked in English.

The girl looked up. ‘Tomorrow,’ she replied in English. ‘Please go.’

Back by the stage, the heat from the paving stones seeped through the soles of her flimsy shoes and her hair soon clumped into a sweaty mass at the nape of her neck. One of the technicians jumped down from the stage and landed beside her. Two of the spotlights flared on as three figures with long hair and black jeans hauled themselves up onto the stage and loped towards the instruments propped up against the microphones. Laure was close enough, and the spotlight so merciless, that she could see the open pores, the sweat and a tidemark on the drummer’s neck.

There was a moment’s hush on the part of the crowd before a raw, raucous sound punched into the air.

The wind was knocked out of Laure. Her eardrums screamed blue murder. Shockwaves shuddered through her from head to foot and, in an uprush of exhilaration and release, she swept up into a wild delight.

A third spotlight shorted with a bang and a shower of sparks. Nobody paid it any attention and it remained a sullen and blackened contrast to its companions. One of the electricians crept towards it but gave up.

It was hopeless to think she would understand the lyrics but it didn’t matter. She knew, she just knew, they would be great. To her surprise, however, she did catch one or two English words.

What a performance. What a sound.

This was life, she thought. At last.

Narrowing her eyes, she craned her head back to get a better view. The trio absolutely owned the stage. They knew every inch of it: strutting, wheeling panthers out to conquer their territory. The bass player had a mane of thinning black hair, the drummer was thickset with big hands but the lithest and sexiest of the group, the one who sang and played with heart-breaking intensity despite being the slightest of the trio, was familiar. He wore the group’s uniform of black jeans but had added a striped linen waistcoat with bone buttons.

Obviously an experienced performer – they all were – he coped easily with the sightlines for the craning audience. Whipping around, he raised his guitar and the ripped section of shirt under the arm revealed a spear of flesh. Along with most of the other women in the audience, Laure caught her breath.