Laurence gave her an odd look and, as he left, Elsa noticed a rather dejected air about his slumped shoulders.

With Laurence sent to the shops for a paper Terry took Elsa in his arms, having started the music. 'Right now, don't look down, don't think, just move with the music. Back on our right foot – excellent!’

After a faltering start, something fell into place in Elsa's brain. She stopped thinking about her feet, she just listened to the music, felt the pressure of Terry's arm on her back as he gently guided her, and moved about the floor with him, apparently glued to his chest. It was brilliant. She could see the two of them – what a contrast to her and Laurence -moving as one. She didn't look awkward and stiff any more.

‘That was amazing!' she said a little breathlessly, a few minutes later. 'I could really feel myself doing it.'

‘You see, you had the steps in your head and in your feet. You just needed to forget about both for it to all happen.' Terry smiled down at her, obviously pleased with her progress, and to have enabled it.

‘Can we do it again?' she asked eagerly.

Round and round the floor they sailed – to the right and to the left and Elsa managed both. She didn't hear the door open and it was only when the music stopped that she noticed Laurence looking at her, and at Terry with his arms around her.

‘Well done,' he said quietly.

‘Isn't it great? I finally got it! It's like My Fair Lady or something!'

‘What?' Laurence frowned.

‘Sorry,' said Elsa. 'I'm a bit addicted to old musicals.'

‘Quite right too,' said Terry and then glanced at his watch. 'I'm afraid my next pupil will be here in a minute, but I want you two guys to practise together before the ball.'

‘Thank you so much, Terry,' said Elsa, her eyes shining with enthusiasm. 'That was wonderful! I never dreamt I could dance like that.'

‘Yes, thank you very much,' said Laurence. He still seemed rather subdued. 'Now, how much do I owe you?’

‘Oh, you must let me pay,' said Elsa, hunting for her chequebook. 'I had the lesson.'

‘But I arranged it for you, so you could come to a ball, with me.' Laurence's cheque arrived on the table before hers did. 'Forty pounds? Thank you very much.’

‘Laurence, you must let me pay. You can waltz perfectly well already. I needed the lesson.' Elsa would never have described herself as an ardent feminist before, but suddenly her whole worth as a woman seemed to depend on her paying for her own waltzing lesson.

But Laurence was adamant. 'No! I arranged it all because I want you to be able to dance. It's my shout. I won't have any argument.’

Once they were outside the studio, Elsa thanked him again. 'You really should have let me pay.'

‘Nonsense, it was worth it. You can dance now, although I wish… anyway, Terry, he was good, wasn't he? You seemed to be getting on very well when I got back.. Laurence looked at his feet.

Elsa bit her lip. Surely he didn't mind that it was Terry who had unlocked the key that enabled her to dance? He was the teacher, that was his job, and he had to hold her tightly. It was part of the dance. Laurence couldn't possibly be jealous of Terry, could he? She smiled to herself – she was fairly sure that Terry was gay.

Bron found the address, tucked away between a pub and a primary school, without difficulty. Pat's directions had been perfect. Four women who needed their hair doing in a kitchen that may well be suitable for making Carrie's wedding cake, all arranged by Pat as promised. Bron was excited as she parked the car.

The house was delightful, she thought, as she started unloading her kit from the boot. She left one load on the doorstep and then went to get the rest of it. Someone had opened the door before she had a chance to ring.

‘You must be Bron,' said a pleasant-faced middle-aged woman with a bad perm. 'I'm Veronica. Let me give you a hand.' Veronica picked up Bron's tool kit. 'Do you mind doing it in the kitchen? There's plenty of space there.'

‘Not at all,' said Bron, thinking how much easier it would be for her to ask about borrowing it if she didn't have to ask to see it specially.

‘And you've got at least five clients. Pat said you wouldn't mind.'

‘Not at all,' she said again. 'I'll get a production line going. It would speed things up if people washed their own hair, though.' She was aware that people loved the therapeutic effect of having their hair washed by professional, massaging fingers, but without a back-wash, it sometimes involved a lot of water down the back of people's necks and it would mean the others had to wait longer.

‘Through here,' said Veronica, leading Bron to the most delightful room. It was large, sunny and overlooked an overflowing cottage garden. There was a long stainless steel counter along one wall with a four-oven range cooker and a double sink. Bron could see various other appliances and another washbasin but couldn't really look properly just now.

Four women were sitting at a table drinking coffee and eating biscuits although it was only nine o'clock. They all looked up when Bron came in. Pat, who was already there, got up and kissed her and introduced her to the other women.

‘We're turning Veronica's kitchen into a hairdressing salon,' she said. 'She's being very nice about it, and providing tea and biccies.'

‘I was just saying to her, I can get through you all a bit quicker if those of you just having a cut and a blow-dry could wash your own hair?' Bron smiled. 'I can do whoever's going first, of course. Veronica? That should be you, I think.’

A little while later, Veronica and Bron re-entered the kitchen. The four women at the table were talking all at once, and very excitedly.

‘We've been chatting!' said Pat. 'About Bron setting up her own business.'

‘Yes?' said Veronica.

‘Mm. We were just saying: good for her; going out, getting work, being her own boss,' Pat went on.

‘And then we wondered if we could do it,' said another. 'How do you find it, love?’

Bron considered. 'Well, it's very early days, but it's nice to work for yourself. If I got enough work not to have to worry about money, it'd be brilliant.’

The women exchanged glances. 'Well,' said the one Bron remembered may have been called Barbara, 'we don't have to worry about that. I mean, we already do a lot of catering for nothing,' she explained. 'Our children have all moved out and we've time on our hands. We'd do catering. It's what we're good at.'

‘Well,' said Veronica. 'You have been busy. Drawn up a business plan yet?'

‘No,' said Barbara, 'you can do that. You're on cakes. You've had the practice.’

Bron steered Veronica to a chair and changed her wet towel for a dry one and draped a gown round her. She could see that everyone was so enthused by their idea they might forget why they were there.

‘So I'm involved in this, am I?' said Veronica, while Bron gently pulled a brush through her hair.

‘Definitely,' said Pat. 'Why should young people do all the entrepreneuring? This would give us something to do outside the home, and I think parties would be fun.'

‘We wouldn't be guests,' said one of the women. 'We'd just be standing around holding trays.'

‘That would be the Aitch-Trot,' said another, sounding knowledgeable.

Everyone looked at her enquiringly.

‘I read it in the paper last Christmas. It means "handing things round on trays". It was Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall who said it.’

There was a collective swoon at the name. 'I love his programmes.'

‘And I like a man who knows what to do with a joint of beef,' said Veronica.

‘So do I,' said Pat, 'and I haven't got one.’

Bron thought there was a hint of belligerence about her ex-boyfriend's mother today and suddenly panicked in case her split with Roger had precipitated something between Pat and her awful husband. Pat seemed so much feistier away from him. Bron was pleased to see this side of Pat coming out more. She would have to encourage it further.