Looking up, Lou found Emma staring at her. The corner of her nose rose in what could have been interpreted as a snarl. She looked like her brother. Lou turned away. She had made an enemy of the woman she was supposed to be helping. Bravo, Lou. Bravo.

‘If I may,’ one of the men said, taking hold of Lou’s dance card.

‘I’m sorry, it’s full.’ She snatched her hand away and made a break for the hall.

Most of the guests had dispersed, joining the dancing in the ballroom or the admiration of Monsieur Gotti’s creations in the dining room. Lou clasped her sides. She shouldn’t have let Sally tie her corset so tight. She tried to take a deep breath, but it barely filled the bottom of her lungs. Starved of oxygen, her head swam. She stood beside the Christmas tree like a lump of clay on a potter’s wheel, spinning around, out of control, pulled and pummelled into this shape and that by so many hands that she no longer knew who or what she was.

‘I haven’t seen you dance yet. Why is that?’ It was the voice of the chief potter.

She drew in a shallow breath before turning to face him. ‘Have you been spying on me?’

‘You’re evading my question.’

‘I haven’t danced because I don’t feel like it.’

‘Ah. Then, I’m afraid I’m about to make you do something against your will.’ Tom crooked his arm and offered it to her.

Lou glanced towards the dining room, half expecting Emma to appear. ‘It’s not a good idea.’

‘A deal’s a deal.’

She stared at his arm. She had to do this. It was expected. Not only that, but part of her – a very large part – wanted to touch him again, just once more. She placed her hand in the crease of his elbow. His bicep contracted beneath his black sleeve, and she had to focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

Tom led her on to the dance floor. He took her left hand and placed his free hand on the small of her back. Every step that Sally had taught her in the privacy of her bedroom slipped from her memory. ‘I can’t do this … I don’t remember how.’

The pressure of Tom’s hand on her spine was constant. ‘Let me lead you. I’ll take it slowly.’

Tom set off, and Lou summoned up the steps, silently counting them to keep her mind on track. One and two and three and four. Why did it feel like Tom was pressing against her when in fact he was keeping a respectable distance? One and two and three and four. Her body tingled as though an electric charge arced, breaching the gap between them in a shower of sparks. She couldn’t see Tom’s face but stared at his shoulder until she was sure he must feel it burning through his jacket and into his skin. One and two and … she stepped on his toes, but he didn’t flinch … three and four. With the beat more or less established, she managed to corral a small section of her brain into making sensible thoughts. She couldn’t afford to waste this opportunity. She may never have Tom to herself again.