He took her to the Clarence, U2’s hotel in Temple Bar. They wandered into the restaurant around seven, Deirdre feeling sloe-eyed and syrupy from a surfeit of sex.

She loved the Clarence. It was the classiest joint in the world as far as she was concerned. Any time she walked through the door she felt as if some of its glamour rubbed off on her – it made her feel ultra special.

They were led to a table between elegant, ceiling-high windows by a softly spoken Italian. After scrolling through the menu, Deirdre sat back to enjoy the ambience. Uniformed staff were gliding from table to table with effortless efficiency, taking and delivering orders. Louis Armstrong played low on the sound system. There were massive, Zen arrangements of bird-of-paradise flowers positioned at intervals along the oak-panelled partition that divided the long room.

Suddenly Deirdre stiffened. She could not believe what she was seeing. Bono was sauntering through the restaurant with proprietorial panache. He was wearing black jeans and a tight black T-shirt, and he looked even sexier in real life. Deirdre gave an involuntary little squeak of excitement.

What’s wrong with you?’ asked Rory, glancing up from the menu.

‘It’s Bono!’ she said in a stage whisper. ‘There – by the bar. Don’t you dare look!’ she hissed, sneaking looks at Bono from behind her menu.

‘I wasn’t going to,’ he said, looking irritatingly unimpressed by the rock star’s proximity. ‘And neither should you. You know how you hate it when soap opera fans gawk at you.’

 

© 2005 Kate Thompson