Poor Alf.
The song was a bad choice for a first dance, but he wasn’t to know. Why should he? There was no reason for my new husband to be aware of the feelings this song was stirring inside me. He hadn’t been there two years previously, when I’d first slow-danced to this song with another man.
But I’m aware.
Aware of the nausea; the bilious liquid rising in my throat until I fear for the future of the off-white satin court shoes that are pinching my toes.
Aware of the solid knot in the pit of my stomach.
Aware of the pain in my heart on what should be the happiest day of my life.
The joy of the day has been washed over – no, flooded out – by the actions of my past, as though everything that’s gone before is weighing me down and now I’m sinking, sinking, sinking.
I paint on a smile and force myself to sway along to the music. A ripple of applause fills the room as Alf and I move, and the flashing of a hundred cameras keen to capture our first dance pierces through the darkness of the church hall.
Relief rushes through me as the song comes to an end, replaced by an upbeat disco tune that gets even my sister Vivienne on to the dance floor, toddler balanced on her hip as she spins. The baby