‘You can sing,’ he said, and she blushed and said, ‘Oh, sort of.’

‘No, you can, that was nice, sing some more,’ but although she laughed, and was pleased, she wouldn’t, not on request like that, not a chance. ‘OK, let’s dance,’ he said.

She turned her head to look at him. ‘Downstairs?’ she asked doubtfully. She didn’t want to go back into the melee, where Stu Watson would leer at her and Tracey Clarke’s knowing eyes would make assumptions when Alison and Daniel came back into the room.

‘No, in here,’ Daniel said. ‘On our own.’

Alison looked at the room, the floor, the discarded junk. ‘Is there space?’

‘Course there is. Come on, you like this one.’

‘How would you know?’ She narrowed her eyes, and he winked at her.

‘Educated guess. Come on,’ he said again.

He sprang off the bed, vaulting over her on to the floor, then held out a hand with a flourish. She laughed, and took it, and they stood among the detritus, holding on to each other, and danced together: a sweet, incompetent, improvised jive.