DANCE ME TO THE end of LOVE

I’ve always loved to dance.

At six, I leapt around the lounge, as devil-may-care as Gene Kelly with his umbrella in Singin’ in the Rain. At 15, I choreographed one-woman shows in my bedroom, dramatic hair flips included, and belted out ‘What a Feeling’ into my microphone-hairbrush. And at 26, I jived around my single-woman flat in the dark, beer in hand, singing along to Marilyn Monroe’s throaty rendition of ‘My Heart Belongs to Daddy’ and wishing I was more voluptuous.

I met someone who loved music as much as I did. We fell in love, and two years later, moved in together, intending to get the whole world dancing to our tune.

But synchronicity eluded us, and gradually I surrendered my will to the insistent direction of this charismatic, charming man. He possessed astute insight into people and their inner workings – or so I thought. His moods became the centre around which I twirled. When he was happy, I felt no one danced better than us. When he was unhappy or critical,