She was cold and the wet would ruin her hair, but she was paralysed on the threshold. What if he wasn’t there? What if he was there? What if Arthur was there? God, no. But he had said he wasn’t going. She had no sense of exactly what she was going to do, and it sent a shiver all over her. She swallowed. Her empty stomach growled.

She pushed open the door.

It was so bright inside, not like the moody, romantic atmosphere she had expected. She blinked in the doorway. Everyone was twirling each other, moving at speed around the floor, the band in full swing. The beat was fast and rhythmic. Teeth flashed as they spun past her. It was much livelier than the dance at Midsummer. The world had been smashed open since then. She took off her scarf and shook out her hair, trying to smooth it, scanning the dancers for him. No sign. She edged around the crowded floor and found the little bar, which was staffed by a brassy woman with piled-up hair whom she’d never seen before.

‘Can I… could I please have a lemonade?’

The woman stared past her.

‘I’m getting this one. Two whisky sours for me and the lady.’ A hand was on her elbow, she was turned around and there was Jack, his smile inscrutable. She took all of him in in a daze: his hazel eyes, the freckles on his thin, crooked nose, the too-wide mouth. The familiar rush of heat spread up her body and prickled on her skin.

‘Hey,’ he said, holding her elbow. ‘I thought you’d stood me up. But here you are, Aphrodite, come to life right here in front of me.’

She didn’t want to but she smiled and blushed and took the drink with gratitude from the brassy woman. Her hand shook. She smiled her thanks at the woman too. Nasty cow.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Jack,’ she said, and blinked furiously, trying not to give in to him. Not yet.

‘Let me take your coat, you can’t sit here in a coat.’ She passed him the mac and sat at a trestle table by the bar, shivering in her dress. She saw now the cut was far too low. He put her coat over the back of another chair and whistled.

‘That is some dress.’ She had to look down and take another large gulp of the bitter drink. It was important not to lose her resolve.

‘I shouldn’t be here,’ she said.

‘Who says? Pete? Art? They ain’t your keepers—’

‘My father, everyone. Me.’ She tried to glare at him but looked fixedly at his ear.

‘I don’t believe you.’ He sounded as if he was humouring a child and leaned back.