Lent term is flying by. It only seems two minutes since it was last Friday. How can it be a whole eight days later already? Paul, thank goodness, hasn't accosted me on campus again, probably because my friends have since taken it upon themselves to chaperone me everywhere. Which is very thoughtful of them, if a little bit stifling. Judith kindly dropped by my college on Monday after pathology and fixed my bike for me so I wouldn't have to walk between St John's and University. Turned out all it needed was a can of WD40 and a good kicking.

For once, I'm not spending my free Saturday afternoon poring over course work or trying to decipher lecture notes. Instead, I'm being transformed. I'm not sure how I managed to be persuaded into accepting a ticket for the Student Medical Society's Valentine Dance - cough *Saffron* cough - but here I am, in a second-floor room of Tit Hall college, at the mercy of one of my best friends who clearly hasn't trusted me to get ready for this occasion on my own.

My personal clothing choice had been vetoed immediately on entering the room. Saffron emitted swear words I'd never even come across before throwing the fanciest outfit I own onto her floor, refusing to even consider my black trousers and light-blue top as a possibility. Instead, I had been forced into a knee-length dress and pinned down onto a dressing table stool whilst Saffron shredded, stabbed and burned my scalp with various barbaric grooming tools and then slapped a million skin products onto my face.

At least that's what it felt like.

Having endured the 'treatment' for what seems like hours now, I think it might be finally, thankfully, coming to an end. Saffron tweaks a few strands of my hair and dabs a damp tissue against the outer corner of my left eye before breaking out into a gloating smile.

"Sunny? Stand up and give me a twirl. Oh my God, girl; you look ay-may-zing. My work here is done."

She spins me around to face the full-length mirror in her room. I admit; I hardly recognise myself in this dusky purple cocktail dress, my hair held up in an elegant twist by a silver dragonfly clip. I lean forward for a closer look.

"Blimey. Is that silver and aubergine eyeshadow? And what the fuck have you stuck to my eyelashes? They look like spider's legs!"

"Relax. It's just lengthening mascara, that's all. No extensions required; your own lashes are freakishly long enough. Now. Shoes," says Saffron in a business-like manner as she strides across her room to a large walk-in wardrobe in the corner. "You're a five, aren't you? These are a five-and-a-half, but I reckon they'll fit."

My friend emerges from the closet, dangling a pair of strappy silver heels from her index finger.

"Haven't you got any ballet flats?" I ask in desperation, eyeing the heels uncomfortably. "There's no way I'll stand up on those."

"Sunny, these are only an inch-and-a-half high. You won't even notice the elevation. Stop being such a baby, for goodness' sake!"

Suitably chastised, I shut up and continue to let Saffron take over.

Several hours later, here I am, in an outfit I'm not familiar with, among a scattering of medics I don't know, who are milling aimlessly around a pink-festooned room of the University Arms Hotel, with little to do except prey upon passing canapés and free Cava. As tempting as the thought is to get wasted, common sense is prevailing. As I have proved time and time again, I am a disastrous drunk.

There are a few exclamations as our resident second-year power couple make an entrance. Orla hangs elegantly from Al's arm, breathtaking in an exquisite pale green and silver dress that looks as though it cost a million pounds. Not that Orla needs expensive clothing to look good; she could wear a 20p bin-liner from Tesco's and still look like a supermodel. Al himself is a feast for the eyes in a well-tailored suit, his dark hair stylishly dishevelled in a way which accentuates his handsomely symmetrical features.

Veronica, looking stunning in a long, petrol-blue chiffon maxi dress, is silly-dancing and laughing with Lemar Singh, a tall, dark-haired guy who I recognise from our neurobiology seminars last term. God only knows where Saffron, Leonard and Yoshi are hiding. I have my suspicions about the first two; they've been inching ever closer since that drinking excursion together last term, despite their protestations on the matter. Yoshi, if I know him at all, is probably eyeing up the violinists in the orchestral ensemble and enviously evaluating their instruments.

So much for a group outing.

Until a few minutes ago, I had Judith to talk to, but she has since been forcibly dragged off to dance with a group of her college friends. I flatly refused to join them and consequently, I'm now standing by the bar alone, feeling ridiculously self-conscious in this plum-coloured cocktail dress that I would never have chosen for myself in a million years, tottering uncomfortably on the stupid silver heels that Saffron insisted upon, and almost wishing I had the confidence to join the dancers.

Almost.

Orla and Al are both laughing attractively about something, looking remarkably like an advert for beautiful living, and as Orla glances over in my direction, I quickly look away and take a sip of my drink. Keeping my eyes averted, I pretend to be fascinated by the bowl of mixed nuts on the bar, busying myself by sifting through the assortment to pick out the cashews.

"Excuse me."

The unexpected interruption to my nut foraging takes me by surprise, and I jump. I look up and into the mesmerising eyes of Al Potter.

"Would you like to dance?"

My first assumption is that he must be asking someone else and I look behind me. There's only a smartly-dressed barman standing there, studiously polishing glasses. My second thought is that he must be desperate to exchange puns with someone, because there is No Way that Al Potter, one of the most beautiful men in the universe, would ever ask me to dance with him when he knows perfectly well I can't even give a ten-minute presentation in front of seven people without making a complete dog's dinner of it.

As though he can read my mind, Al adds drily "Yes, Sunny, I'm asking you if you'd like to dance. I'm not asking the barman."

I glance at Al suspiciously, considering. "Why not? I bet he's a much better dancer than I am."

Al breaks out into gorgeous smile which makes me go rather flaccid at the knees."So is that a unique, roundabout way of saying Yes? Come on, Sunita Chandrakumar. Don't make me beg."

Somehow, Al always knows how to make me laugh. Seeing him beg? Now there's a temptation I might be unable to resist.

"Not gonna lie, I'd love to see you grovel," I reply mischievously.

"I bet you bloody would," he smirks. "Please? Do me the honour of dancing with me?"

I shrug my shoulders in uncertainty. Of course I really want to be able to dance with Al - who wouldn't? - but he'd never look at me again if I subject him to my embarrassingly uncoordinated moves.

"I'm not sure," I mutter. "I'm not a great dancer. Actually, scratch that; I'm a terrible dancer!"

He reaches for my hand - the one that's in the nuts, because the other one is firmly wrapped around a drink - and pulls me gently towards him. "You know, the only way to improve is to practice, don't you?"

I dig my silver kitten heels in, which is, admittedly, difficult on this smooth wooden floor. "Maybe I could invest in some dance lessons from a professional first, and then you could ask me again in a few years?" I suggest politely.

He laughs as he takes the drink out of my hand and places it down on a nearby table. "Relax, Sunny! It's supposed to be fun."

By now, I've given up trying to stop him and am meekly allowing myself to be led onto the dance floor. "But I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing," I say hastily, trying to absolve myself of all responsibility just in case I manage to make him look an idiot too. "I'm being serious; I can't dance. I'll get it all horribly wrong and drag you down with me."

"What makes you think I'd mind? Anyway, there's nothing to get wrong, I promise." Al gently places my right hand on his shoulder and then takes my left hand in his right. His spare hand finds the small of my back, sending a ripple of goosebumps across my skin.

A feeble laugh escapes my lips. "Al? I'm being serious! I have NO idea what to do. Don't say I haven't warned you."

"Dancing is a confidence thing, just like public speaking. Focus on me. Forget everyone else."

Focusing on Al is the thing I am most bothered about. For fuck's sake, how can I focus on someone who is that attractive? I'm trying to look at anything BUT him.

We start to dance. Well, Al starts to dance. I'm just rigid in his hold. I daren't move for fear of looking like a panicked octopus attempting its debut drum solo.

He squeezes my hand. "Are you always this tense?" he whispers as my whole body betrays my feelings by turning to jelly.

Stupid body.

I make a vague rodent-esque noise of terror and direct my concentration downwards so I don't step on Al's expensively-clad toes. I notice he knows exactly what to do with his feet and his rhythm distracts me.

"You're not supposed to be looking at the floor, you know. Does my face bother you that much?"

Sigh. If only he knew.

"I thought you said I couldn't get this wrong?" I reply, avoiding his question but tearing my gaze away from his brogues. "I'm concentrating on not stepping on your feet. I like your shoes, by the way. Very shiny."

Al laughs. "Thanks. So are yours."

"They're not mine but they are very sparkly. Not terribly comfortable, though."

I so want to be able to say something clever and witty, but all I can think about is my proximity to Al, and his light, alluring fragrance that delights my olfactory system. Maybe that's exactly why I'm spouting shit about footwear.

In these heels, my eyes are just about level with Al's jaw. It's lightly-stubbled and there's an adorable little dimple at the side of his mouth which is crying out to be prodded, but that would be a bit rude of me. I'm fairly sure it's not the done thing to poke the face of one's dancing partner.

"Al?"

"Hmm?"

"You obviously know what you're doing with your feet and stuff. Where did you learn to dance?"

He takes a moment to answer as he casually sweeps me along in time to the music. "Umm, nowhere in particular. It's just accumulated experience, borne out of necessity."

"What on earth do you mean by that?"

"Well, you know; I attended school dances and social engagements, that sort of thing."

"Ah. You must have gone somewhere upmarket like Eton or Harrow, I'm guessing."

"Neither."

"Rugby? Winchester? You've definitely been educated at a posh establishment."

"I suppose it was a somewhat exclusive school, yes."

"And as for social engagements; are you famous?" I'm joking, of course, but he looks away almost shyly, and doesn't reply.

Is he famous? I'm not an avid reader of magazines, so I wouldn't know, but I've not seen him on the news at all. If he is famous, I hope it's not for anything scandalous. Perhaps he's an aristocrat, although Potter doesn't sound like an aristocratic surname. Maybe he's here under a pseudonym? I start to wonder whether he's a European heir to the throne, or the son of a billionaire. I wonder if he has a yacht on the Mediterranean or plays polo with the British royal family, or has ever been hounded by the press for wearing the wrong sort of cufflinks at a state occasion.

The music builds to a crescendo, then gradually diffuses away. Our dance is over and I dreamed it away on Al's glossy shoes and a fictitious tabloid column. What a waste. Still, I expect he'll want to get back to Orla now; I've monopolised him for long enough. I go to detach my fingers from his and thank him for being so kind.

He keeps a hold on my hand, gentle despite the slight callouses that line his palms.

"Um, Sunny? Where are you going?"

"The music has stopped. Isn't the dance over?"

"Ah. Well. I was hoping you'd like to dance for a little longer."

Would I?

As he speaks, the string quartet begins to play a slower, more gentle melody. Confused by the unexpected change of pace, I pause uncertainly.

"Al?"

"Hmm?"

"How do I dance to this one, then?"

"Your hands go here. Like this," he says, picking up both my arms and placing them around his neck. He shifts his hold, putting a hand either side of my waist, which tickles and I flinch. He immediately removes his hands.

"Sunny, I'm sorry," he says, visibly unsettled. "I should have asked, or at least warned you."

"No, I'm sorry," I reply in embarrassment. "I'm just really ticklish." A flush creeps up my face.

He grins. His hands go back to my waist and I try not to show any discomfort or burst out giggling.

This is getting very close, but something is gnawing at me.

"Al? Won't Orla mind?"

Al narrows his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Orla. She's your girlfriend, isn't she? I can't see her being too happy about you dancing closely with all sorts of random women."

"My girlfriend?"Al blushes and grins awkwardly. "Ah. Orla's not my girlfriend. I mean, she's a really good friend and obviously she's a girl, but it's purely platonic. There's nothing romantic going on between us."

"Oh!" I reply, suddenly intoxicated by this unexpected information. However, I remind myself, Al is ethereal and bound to have some devastatingly beautiful goddess for a future wife, whereas I'm nothing more than plain ordinary, destined to end my days either as a bitter, cat-hoarding spinster, or married to a monosyllabic neanderthal. As ecstatic as I am, I daren't let myself hope for more. It will only end in sadness.

"Anyway," says Al smoothly. "We're just dancing, nothing more, and you're not just some random woman, you nutter."

And there it is. "Just dancing." Indifference. A clear message not to expect anything else. Sunita Chandrakumar, you have reached your destination: Disappointment City. Don't forget to take all your miserable luggage with you, and mind the gap of eternal doom between the train and the platform.

Still, as I metaphorically deflate in his arms like a vinyl doll with a slow puncture, it's rather pleasant to be 'just dancing' with Al without the expectation that it's going to progress, and this revelation that I'm nothing to him means that I can finally let myself relax and enjoy it.