Batting away the urge to punch her as she begins to pull him to his feet, I realize that she’s trying to get him up and dancing. Unlike me, she doesn’t know about Peter’s lack of dance skills. She’s about to be in a world of pain and I almost feel sorry for her feet. Having wanted to look at anything else all night long, now I can’t tear my eyes away.

But he doesn’t go off with her. Instead, he moves away from her and towards me.

‘Dance with me.’

‘You can’t dance. And I’m far too sober. I’ll feel every accidental injury.’

‘I know, but that woman doesn’t care that I can’t dance. And I can’t be on the dance floor with her. She’ll eat me alive. It was bad enough at the very well-lit table. I dread to think what she would be like on the dance floor under the cover of semi-darkness. Save me. Please.’

I look at her. There is a lot of determination in her eyes. She has an air of confidence that only continental Europeans have about them.

Then I look at Peter.

I can’t help the laugh that escapes. ‘You actually do look a bit scared.’

‘I’m more than a bit scared. I’m petrified.’

He grabs my hand and we go to the dance floor.

I have been close to Peter before, but as he pulls me to him, I don’t quite know where to put my hands. Everywhere suddenly feels too intimate.

The awkwardness is replaced by pain when Peter steps on my foot.

‘Sorry.’

I can’t help the sharp inhale but: ‘It’s fine, you’ve done worse.’ He definitely has. ‘Do you remember the time you gave me a black eye?’

‘Yes, yes I do remember that. But ceilidhs are notoriously violent.’

‘Violent? They’re choreographed dances.’

‘Yes, violent choreographed dances.’

‘Maybe with you around.’

It’s only when the song has finished that I realize we danced the rest of the time in silence, my hands somehow finding their way up, pulling myself closer to Peter, my head relaxing against him.

The lull in the music helps me to clear my head. I step away and say the only safe thing I can think to say.

‘I’m going to go get a drink.’

Once at the bar I’m able to breathe again.

‘He’s quite the catch, that one, huh? Are you guys going to try the long-distance thing?’

‘Sorry?’ I turn towards the voice and find myself looking at Al, who has cornered me at the edge of the bar.

‘The long-distance thing? I assume you’ll be doing the long-distance thing when Peter moves to Australia in January?’

Peter is moving to Australia? In January? This coming January? Oblivious to my turmoil, Al keeps going.

‘I was quite annoyed when they offered him the placement over me. It’s a great opportunity to go and set up the new digital arm.’ He takes another sip of his drink. ‘Or I suppose you could move with him. I can’t remember from our five minutes what you do for a living. Will you be able to move with him?’