When neon pink posters announcing “Ballroom for beginners – coming soon!” started to adorn the community centre, I didn’t hesitate to exhume my leggings.

I have a Strictly Come Dancing fixation. Since I was a little girl I’ve adored watching dancers; the energy and grace of choreography captivate me. The manoeuvres and lifts those professionals perform so effortlessly are magic to me.

I’m a sucker for films like Dirty Dancing and Flashdance too. Stories of girls becoming expert movers during the course of an 80s power ballad are irresistible fun. (Don’t worry, by the way, this isn’t one – I won’t be leaping into the splits or one of those gravity-defying lifts by the final paragraph.)

So I signed up for the class, and tried to forget the last time I’d danced in the community centre. It was at my cousin’s twenty-first birthday bash. I was only seventeen, soused on two Babychams and burning to impress Justin Armstrong with my killer disco moves. Until the Grease Megamix came to grief, I toppled in my new stilettos and landed on my bum at his feet.

Justin, at twenty-one, was A Man. He had wavy hair like a Calvin Klein model and eyes the colour of Terry’s All Gold, and was idolised by numerous girls. He appeared shy, though, and wasn’t known to take advantage of any desperate devotees.

He certainly didn’t act upon my efforts. His stifled smirk as I heaved myself off the floor made my innards shrivel.

I winced a little when venturing on to that bum-bruising floor seven years later.  However, I was sober this time, wearing better shoes and raring to go with my new hobby.

Being first lesson for all of us, there was a lovely enthusiasm within the group. We numbered a good fifty, from teens to tea dancers, attending alone and in couples, many saying they were inspired by the TV show.

“You on your lonesome too,” asked a warm male voice beside me, “want to pair up?”

Mmm – tall, ruffled black hair, jolly eyes, lovely smile. This was a good start.

“Sure. I’m afraid my friends are hopeless. They’re washing their hair tonight, or washing the cat, or they’ve got dodgy ankles. I’m Vanessa, by the way.”

“I’m Conrad. Couldn’t talk my partner into this either.”

Partner! Oh shame.

“No?”

“He can’t even bear being in the room when Strictly Come Dancing is on. Me, I can’t get enough of it.”

He? Oh, how to dash a girl’s hopes in seconds!

Con and I danced well together, as it happened, and as our rumbas blossomed from week to week we bonded. I stood no chance with him romantically, of course, but we became firm friends. He talked with love about his partner Jay; their plans for a civil partnership.

Not that nattering distracted our focus.  We relished our lessons. “You have a natural sense of rhythm,” Con once complimented me.

Then one week, we found ourselves united further by a staggering coincidence.

“I’ve only got another three more classes,” Con forewarned me courteously, “then I’m off to America for a fortnight. Going to a wedding actually.”

“Hey, and me. Whereabouts is yours?”

“Philadelphia.”

“No way!  Your bride and groom aren’t Ashley and Lauryn, by any chance?”

Even as I sniggered at the absurdity of my question, Con gasped. “How did you know?”

We gawped at each other like goldfish, before simultaneously breaking into a dazed giggle.

“Ash is my cousin,” I spluttered. “How do you know him?”

“I don’t really – never met him in fact – it’s Jay. They were at school together and kept in touch until Ash emigrated to the States. That was just before I met Jay, five years ago.”

“Yes, he was offered a fantastic job over there. He didn’t intend to stay forever – then he met Lauryn.”

“Anyway, Ash lost contact with Jay for a while, but tracked him down through Facebook and asked if we’d like to go over for the wedding. We thought why not. We need a holiday, and America’s on both of our ‘to do’ lists.”

“Sounds like it’ll be a swish do.”

“Yes, we’re looking forward to it. And now you’re going to be there too.” Con shook his head again. “This is just surreal.”

“I know. I’ll have to call Ash. Haven’t spoken to him for ages anyway.”

“Actually you’ll get to meet Jay tonight. He’s picking me up – my car’s at the garage. Oh, wait ’til I tell him this!”

Any semblance of rhythm deserted us that night.

Jay turned out to be gorgeous too. He had deep, vaguely familiar chocolate dark eyes, which lit up as Con told him the story.

Then he smiled warmly at me, and I knew at once who he was. “Vanessa! I haven’t seen you since Ashley’s twenty-first.  By the sound of it, your footwork’s improved somewhat.”

Jay – a name I’d assumed was short for Jason – was of course a friend of Ashley, at whose birthday party I muffed Grease Lightning in front of…”Justin Armstrong!”

I just laughed at the way this mad evening was going.

At least now I understood why no girls stood a chance with him.

“Has he got any brothers?” I whispered to Conrad later, as we followed Jay/Justin out of the hall.

“Three,” Con grinned. “All single. And straight. And they look just like him.”

“I’ve died and gone to heaven!”