So she whirled, twirled and smiled, and when she was not dancing, there was always some man or other keen enough to fawn and flatter. She sat out the number eight. Champagne continued to be generously poured into glasses, carefully at first so everyone could relish the excitement of watching the bubbles rise to the top and then disperse, but as the night wore on the waiters became sloppy, the champagne slipped over the rim and flowed on to gloves and fingers. No one cared. One two three, one two three, the rhythm swept through her body. She looked past the endless sea of swaying dark shoulders, trying to locate him. She caught a glimpse of his strong, straight back on two occasions. Then he vanished again. It was hard to track him amongst the countless identical black suits, shiny lapels and bobbing heads. Everywhere there was laughter, loud, louche men, flirty, flighty girls.

The ninth, tenth and eleventh were suddenly done. Been and gone. Not to be recaptured. Might he be on the balcony? Or playing billiards? The young men did tend to prowl in packs, making the entire place their own. Rather daring. The room was hot; women fanned themselves with gusto. She should probably get some air herself, but who was there to take her outside? That was Nathaniel’s special and particular role. He’d taken her for air at the last four dances. They’d managed to snatch a few minutes alone before someone was sent by Mother to subtly supervise. Precious minutes when he’d smiled and whispered, joked and flattered. His lips so close to her ear. His eyes staring into hers. Her mouth was dry now; she swallowed. Keeping it all down. Keeping it all in.

The room was full of flashing thoughts; messages were sent out in a glance: invitations, rejections, requests, rebuffs. Vivian watched them all, the successful and the hopeless. So many youthful sorts trying to find a place. The music swelled. Was that the fourteenth already? It couldn’t be. Why hadn’t Nathaniel come to find her? She searched around again. Wet, smiling lips were everywhere. Bright eyes, fluttering lids. Dance steps remembered, forgotten and sometimes ignored. The question Where is he? repeatedly drummed inside her skull. Everything was floaty. The air was taut and intense; no one cared that later it would become damp and overused.

‘There you are!’ She forced her mouth shut before she added ‘at last’ or ‘Where have you been?’

‘Here I am!’ he replied. Two feet away from her. His mouth was slack and his eyes misty. Gosh, it occurred to her that everyone was a little tight. There was lemonade and ices but still people had gotten tipsy. She didn’t want him to be. He wasn’t as careful or thoughtful when he was drunk; he made silly jokes and preferred spending time with his friends. That was probably why she hadn’t seen him tonight: he’d been flitting away his time with them. But then perhaps he needed Dutch courage before he popped. The thought excited and cheered her. She started to giggle. Perhaps she was squiffy too; she’d danced far less than usual and as a consequence had drunk more than ever before. She didn’t want that either. It was harder to be perfect. Actually impossible. And yet she was a little bit fuzzy-headed. The evening was not going to plan, which was frustrating and devastating by turn. Her brief optimism vanished. Her mood wouldn’t stay constant. A wave of sadness drenched her. She felt it as completely as if she was standing on the beach and a breaker had crashed in from the sea. She was heavy and indisposed. She had to get back on track. He ought to ask her to dance now.