“You shouldn’t worry so much,” he says, touching my arm, squeezing gently, the way I do with Dad when he’s anxious.

Lucas turns to Isabelle, offers her his hand, which she accepts and the pair move towards the dancers.

Iris whips off her silver wrap and throws it across the back of a nearby chair.

“May I have the pleasure of this dance, Mr. Keogh?” she says, hanging her sticks on a coat hook and taking Dad’s hand.

“Indubitably,” he says. I’ve only ever heard my dad use that word. And not for years. I never asked him what it meant when I was a kid. I just liked the way it sounded when he said it. Like a tongue twister.

Indubitably.

Iris laughs and draws Dad into the throng. I worry that she will stumble without the aid of her sticks. She will fall. I haven’t seen her walk without her sticks in ages. Months.

But she doesn’t stumble. She doesn’t fall. She leads Dad to a capsule of space in the midst of the crowd.

They dance.

Iris dances the same way she does everything else. Every part of her gets involved; her hips, her neck, her hands, her head, her face. Especially her face, which shines as though someone has turned on all her lights.

I stand at the edge of the crowd, an onlooker. I am back at the end-of-term school disco. I was an onlooker there too, horribly aware of myself, a collection of limbs that were too long and too awkward. A collection of thoughts, all of them rigid with embarrassment at how foolish I must appear.

I study the enormous high-ceilinged room. Wine racks run the length and breadth of the walls, bulging with bottles, dusty and cobwebbed. There are a few tables and chairs scattered about the room, but nobody sits at them. Everybody, it seems, is dancing.

Now, Iris moves towards the band, bending to speak into the ear of the pianist, who nods and stands, shuffles to the side so that Iris can take her place on the piano stool. She mouths something to the other musicians, and they rearrange themselves at their instruments, watch for Iris’s signal.

Iris used to play a lot. Until the MS wormed its way into her fingers.

Now she flexes these same fingers and starts to play Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five.” Which happens to be Dad’s favorite piece of music if you discount Frank Sinatra.

Already I can see the familiar tune having an effect on Dad. It’s like an old friend, tapping him on the shoulder, asking him if he’d like to dance.

He would. He does. Not an Iris-style dance, all arms and legs and wildness. This one is demure. A barely there dance. More like a swaying-to-the-music type of dance. He clicks his fingers to the beat and his timing is perfect.

I only go to the bar because there is a free high stool. I will look less conspicuous sitting down. Behind the counter stands a short, stocky woman in a tuxedo and dickie bow, holding a champagne flute up to the light, frowning, then rubbing at whatever has displeased her with a piece of muslin and much elbow grease.