‘D’you know this one?’ Will asks, as I go on standing next to him like a statue.

‘I think so.’ Mum used to teach me in the back garden on sunny weekends. Dances from her childhood, I imagine: the Dashing White Sergeant and the Military Two-step. Strip the Willow. She would always lead, and we’d invariably end up in a giggling, exhausted heap on the grass.

‘If it helps,’ Will says, as I furtively glance around at all the spectators and couples, ‘pretend it’s just us.’

And once we start dancing, pretending is easy. I remember the steps. I remember how great it feels to dance – a feeling that no one could ever argue is not good for me. The pivots and birls spin and blur the room so that Will is the only person I can see. I don’t think about who’s still talking about me, or how I’m ever going to get any of them to talk to me. I don’t think about Dr Abebe or even Mum. And I don’t think about Ravi, who never once made my heart thump-thump. I relax. I allow myself to smile, to dance, to enjoy holding someone’s hand. An arm tight around my waist. Lifting me off the ground and spinning me dizzy. By the time the music finishes, we’re out of breath and laughing, and I don’t look at anyone else at all as he leads me to a couple of plastic chairs beside the dancefloor.

‘Thank you,’ I say.

‘What for?’

When I don’t answer, he briefly touches my knee with his. ‘Everyone’s good people here.’

‘Okay.’

‘I’m afraid I have to go. Got to be up at dawn.’ He gives me a slow smile. ‘I was already half out the door when I saw you.’

My skin prickles hotter at that, and I’m even more disturbed by how much I want him to stay. And then by how obvious I must have made that look when he touches the back of my hand with the back of his in the space between our seats where no one else can see. I jump. I feel like one long nerve ending.

‘Come to the farm tomorrow,’ he says, holding my gaze.

‘Okay.’ I should say no. Or that he wouldn’t be asking if he knew anything about me. But I don’t want to be so presumptuous. Conceited. Or, more likely, I just don’t want to talk about it out loud, this ridiculous feeling. This warning sign by anyone’s definition. Besides, he has to know at least the one thing about me that everyone else does. And he’s still asked.

I nearly jump out of my skin when the band suddenly erupts into what is definitely not a waltz or reel. It drums up from under my feet, clearing both my head and the dancefloor in seconds.

‘Is that “Hellbound Train”?’

Will laughs. ‘Donnie fancies himself for a Red Hot Chili Piper.’ He stands up. ‘Night, Maggie. Thanks for the dance.’ Another smile. ‘See you tomorrow.’