The voice interjects like a stick thrust between the spinning spokes of a wheel. Jack’s steps falter. He catches the edge of Gwen’s shoe, feels the give of its soft leather and gasps an apology as they stumble to a stop.

Gordon Allingham stands in a sharp suit, his hair slickly parted and gleaming under the hall’s bright lights. He proffers his hand and Gwen springs from Jack’s grasp with such unbridled joy that he realises at once he is a dupe. He steels himself against the icy shaft thrust between his ribs as she withdraws the last vestiges of her warm touch and slips seamlessly, without apology, into Gordon’s waiting arms. Before Jack even has a chance to draw breath, she is whirling away, as elusive as a dandelion clock borne on the wind. He thinks she looks back at him, just once, before she disappears behind scudding couples, but when she finally emerges, skimming the far side of the floor, she is gazing so intently at Gordon he knows he was mistaken.

He is sitting on the outside steps when Gwen comes to find him, smoking a cigarette that he has cadged from the girl serving behind the bar, though he failed to return her flirtation and had declined her offer to meet later, delivered as a hot whisper into his ear. The cigarette was the only thing he wanted, something to blur the edges of his regret and dull his sense of disappointment. The barmaid had eventually surrendered it with an arched brow, her puckered lips transforming into a hard line of displeasure as she moved away. Jack made no apology; he had merely picked up his pint and the cigarette and headed for the door.

‘There you are! I thought perhaps you’d already gone,’ Gwen says, descending a step so she can sit beside him, her shoes clacking on the wood. ‘Gosh, it’s boiling in there!’

He glances across at her and notices the sparkle of sweat on her forehead. It reminds him of a rose garnished with morning dew. He turns his eyes out front.

‘I won’t go until you’re ready,’ he tells her, grinding the cigarette under his shoe.

‘The thing is … Gordon’s offered to take me home …’

‘Your dad …’

‘Doesn’t need to know.’ She looks at him beseechingly, but she cannot face him for long. Her gaze drops to her satin-encased fingers, as they fiddle nervously with the clasp on her clutch. ‘Please, Jack.’