“I have no idea of the steps,” I warn him, putting my gloved fingers into his hand.

“If a turkey can manage them, I’m certain you and I will cope,” he says.

I have always considered myself to be a reasonable dancer, but this is like nothing else I have ever attempted. Bram and I do our best to copy the footwork and arm movements of our fellow trotters, with increasing hysteria. A tiny woman in a beaded dress and glasses barrels into us at one point, and an enthusiastic young man treads heavily on Bram’s left foot. Soon we are forced to hold onto one another if only to avoid injury. By the time the rag reaches its triumphant final notes we are quite helpless with laughter. As the music finishes a cheer goes up amid cries of “Again! Again!” Bram groans at the idea of repeating the exercise. The crowd becomes more and more vociferous, demanding the record be played over at once. Bram still has his arm protectively around my waist, and I find that I have no wish to step out of his casual embrace. At this moment, a rosy-cheeked woman flings herself from the chair she has been standing on into the arms of her beau. In doing so, she drops her cocktail glass, which smashes on the wooden floor. I glance at Bram. He returns my look, and I know he is thinking of another piece of glass. One which was saved from smashing. His expression grows pensive.

“Let’s go outside. Somewhere quieter,” he says. When I hesitate he takes hold of my hand. “Please.”