Carrie laughs. ‘Not at all. Her mother was a religious whacko. Carrie was telekinetic. She wasn’t bad – she just took revenge on the arseholes that tried to make her life hell. Including her mum. Thankfully mine is nothing like Carrie’s mum. She just likes Stephen King. To be honest, I’m quite happy with the choice – it’s a talking point.’ She shrugs. ‘Besides, could’ve been worse. She could’ve called me Christine … after the possessed car.’

A girl in my class at primary school was called Christine. She was an annoying little whinger of a kid. One of those with a constantly snotty nose and horrible pink NHS specs. I wonder where she is now.

Carrie takes another handful of popcorn. ‘What about you? Violet is a great name. Was your mum a hippy? Flower child? Have you got sisters called Daisy and Tulip?’

‘Well…’ I take a long slow drink. She’s gazing at me, waiting for an answer. ‘I actually wasn’t given this name by my parents. I changed it when I left school. It’s after the Hole song. You know it?’

She wrinkles her nose, drops her brows. ‘As in Courtney Love, Hole? Courtney who ruined your man’s life, there?’ She lifts her chin, gesturing at my T-shirt. Her accent has gone decidedly Irish.

‘It depends whose account you want to believe,’ I say, sniffily. I loved Kurt Cobain, of course I did. But I loved Courtney too. They were the nineties’ Sid and Nancy. Oh how I ached to be part of that lifestyle.

‘Didn’t their daughter disown her for being a terrible mother?’ She takes another drink. ‘Maybe that was about the name though … Who the hell would be happy with Frances Bean, for fuck’s sake.’

‘It doesn’t matter. It’s the song I liked. Like.’ I correct myself. ‘Do you know it?’

She looks up, as if trying to get the song to slot into place in the jukebox inside her head. She hums a few bars. ‘Na nana, take everything … everything. Something like that.’

‘Yeah.’ I’m a bit annoyed that she doesn’t know it better than that, but it’s my song, not hers.

‘What’s your real name then? Was your mum not pissed off that you changed it?’ She turns away, waving a hand to attract the waitress.

‘Violet is my real name,’ I say. Both of our pints are empty now. ‘Do you fancy some food yet?’

She shakes her head. ‘Two more,’ she says to the waitress, ‘and let’s have a couple of sambucas too.’

As we’re waiting for the drinks, a short man wearing a pale-blue cap and beige slacks comes in from outside, handing out flyers. He slides one on our table. ‘Tour tomorrow, girls. Good price.’

‘Tour to where?’ Carrie says. She peers at the leaflet.

‘Into the Gobi. Authentic Mongolian experience. Stay two nights, see wild horses—’