I think my eyes are closed.

I am dancing with my eyes closed.

It is only when the music stops that I become aware of myself again. Of the exertion of my breath, the thump of my heart, the dense, sweet smell of the crowd, clapping now, for Iris. And the musicians.

But mostly for Iris. You can see it in their faces. The reflection of light in their eyes. They’re not exactly sure what’s happened.

But I know. I’ve seen it before. Many times. Iris Armstrong has happened.

Now, there is a lull as people collect themselves, catch their breath. I check on Dad, who is dancing with a gentleman, of around the same vintage as him. They are waltzing without the benefit of music, which looks as strange as it sounds, although there is a curious grace to their slow, deliberate movements. All straight backs and rigid arms and high heads.

The man wears a fedora. Carries it off magnificently. A triangle of folded handkerchief pokes out of the breast pocket of his suit. The handkerchief matches the band around the fedora. I have an idea my mother would approve of this attention to detail.

I ask Lucas where the ladies’ is and he points to a passageway at the back of the room. I walk towards it; my feet curiously unsteady now that I have stopped dancing.

The bathroom is a large, ornate affair, with brass taps and tropical plants and massive prints of nudes on the walls, and tall, thin candles flickering, beads of wax running down their sides like children coming down a slide.

While of course I worry about candles in an unsupervised area, the light that they throw does something to my face in the gilt-edged mirror over the basin.

I don’t look like Terry Shepherd from number 55. I look like someone else. Like I could be someone else. I smile. And not my usual small, not-quite-a-smile smile.

No, it’s sort of luxurious, this smile. A deluxe version. Seriously, that’s what I’m doing when the phone rings. I’m smiling at myself in a mirror.

I jump when the phone rings. I bang my elbow off the edge of the windowsill. The pain is sharp, instant. Like a bucket of cold water emptied over my head. Just as well really because when I pick my phone out of my handbag and look at the screen, I see that the caller is Brendan. I clear my throat, take a breath.

“Brendan!” I say. “Hello!” I say.

“Terry? Is that you? I can only make out the inside of your ear,” Brendan begins.

“What do you mean?”

“Look at the screen,” he says.

I move the phone away from my ear, look at the screen, which is now filled with Brendan’s face, staring right at me.

“Brendan,” I say again. “There you are.”

“What?”

“I just... I mean, it’s lovely to see you.” This is not true. Not at all. The sudden appearance of Brendan’s face on my phone screen feels like an accusation. Guilt crawls along my skin. I think it’s because Brendan looks tired. Wrung out. Like a used-up J Cloth. “Are you okay?” I ask.