There has always been an atmosphere of glamour about the man.
Today he looks bronzed and handsome, in black cords and a black moleskin jacket. He speaks languorously, his accent a mixture of Irish and American.
He was working as a commercial artist in Putney – “drawing straight lines, watering the spider plants, making cups of tea” – when someone suggested that he visit the Ovalhouse theatre company in south London.
“I knew that I’d found sanctuary when I went there,” he says, “and I knew I’d found a lifestyle that enabled me to be many people all at the same time and to explore my own fractured life.” He dabbled in experimental theatre, doing plays on the underground and almost getting arrested at a Rolling Stones gig for, as he puts it, “getting in the way, loitering and trying to do puppet theatre activities”.
“It was extremely courageous of her to get out of the mangled lifestyle of Catholicism and shaming, and find a life for herself and myself,” says Brosnan. There are no windows; it’s just the shell of a house.