‘She died? I’m sorry to hear that. I always thought, if you don’t mind me saying, dear, that she was a bit hard on you. It seemed to me that nothing you ever did was quite good enough for her. And you were such a good girl.’

Emma felt a jab at those words. A jab of validation. ‘Well, thank you for saying that,’ she said. ‘That was exactly how it felt.’ A passing waiter filled up her glass as she had hoped he would.

‘And you not having any siblings to take a bit of the flak . . . I always thought how lonely that must have been. You got kids?’

Emma took a long swig. ‘Nope,’ she said.

‘Ah, what a shame.’

‘Hey, listen to that!’ Sally shrieked, necking back her glass, cupping her ear theatrically and then grabbing Emma’s hand to pull her over towards the disco end of the room, where a silver ball spun slowly in a purple light. A couple of slightly younger women were enjoying themselves on the dance floor, exuding a physical self-confidence that normally would have left Emma feeling depleted – they were rock-chicky, slinky and sexy, blonde hair with dark roots, clothes slipping off smooth shoulders, tiny tattoos in erogenous places, oozing ease as they moved to the music.

But she had no choice: Sally was whispering to the DJ and soon their teenage years were beckoning. She laughed. ‘Billericay Dickie’. She remembered the days spent in Sally’s room working out dance routines to Ian Dury songs (before they embraced Gothdom and stopped moving altogether, and instead clung to dark walls in dark venues). It was amazing what the body could recall. The younger cooler women stepped aside, fans of Sally Pea, enjoying these old-timers and the snatches of remembered routines. Emma couldn’t remember the last time she had danced. Let alone like this; she shed the years like skin from a snake. She was no longer old, square and past it, she was herself again. She and Sally strutted stupidly for song after song. And Sally’s DJ just kept those old classics coming – Siouxsie, the Cure, the Clash – and they danced with all the exuberance of seventeen-year-olds and all the limitations of forty-seven-year-old bodies.

Then she spotted him, standing at the bar. He was watching her. Strangely confident with this new Emma reclaimed, she stopped dancing and went over to greet him. She was sweating, shining, happy.

‘Hello there, Mr. Thompson.’

‘Nice moves,’ he said, kissing her cheeks.

‘I was wondering when you were going to turn up,’ she said.

‘Is your husband here?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘Is your wife?’

‘Ex-wife. Yeah.’ He nodded towards the rock chicks. Ah, of course he would have married a woman like that; he was Dougie Thompson, after all.

She was feeling fantastically drunk, unusually reckless. ‘Thanks for giving Sally my number, Dougie. It’s great to be here.’