The door was open when I’d got there; she’d texted me on the walk over to tell me it would be. I pushed through slowly, in case I startled her in the middle of something. Not that Fred seemed the sort to be startled by much. And no sooner had the door cracked open, I realised it would have to be a hefty loud intruder to make any noise at all over the sound of her music. Little Mix’s ‘Woman Like Me’ was playing at a nightclub volume and Fred, in a flowing pleated black dress that looked way too fancy for 9 a.m. on a Saturday, was dancing around the open-plan space. When she swept around and saw me standing at the other end of the corridor, her expression was an excited one; she looked genuinely happy I’d arrived, and I tried to remember the last time someone had looked at me like that. Probably Betty, when I got back from a wine run. But she still didn’t turn the music down. Instead, she rushed the length of the corridor, shut the door – the escape route I’d left ajar behind me – and eased my backpack off with more gentleness than the action seemed to deserve.

‘Come and dance,’ she instructed, and she grabbed my hand to tug me towards the living area where the music, I soon noted, was even louder.

Fred moved around lyrically; if she’d been speaking, she would have been reciting a love letter to her body. She jutted her hips one minute but then moved in a smooth flow the next; her arms waved around like she was conducting the musicians. And, most impressive of all, there was nothing about her that said worry; nothing like self-consciousness; nothing like she minded, even, that she was being watched. The song soon faded out but it was replaced with Jessie J’s ‘Sexy Lady’, the opening chords for which had Fred gasping in excitement.

‘Come!’ She pulled my hand again. ‘Please dance with me.’

I laughed. ‘What about your neighbours?’

‘Ah, my neighbours are cool,’ she huffed out; she was shimmying already. ‘I put up with their late-night noise and they put up with my early morning dance-a-thons. It’s a quid-pro-quo situation. Now …’ She slowed to catch her breath. ‘Will you dance with me or is this something you have to be drunk to do?’

‘Fred, I …’ I faded when I realised she was being playful; her eyebrow was cocked and she was smirking. ‘I never dance this early,’ I admitted.