It was late. It was dark. It was loud. Frank lit a cigarette.

He leant back on his elbows at the bar, swaying a little, but still working hard to maintain the look of one of the cool kids. His flecky wool trousers were a little bit sweaty, and he was unaware of the creeping damp patches under the arms of his short-sleeved shirt. He was still a man-boy; his waist too slim, trousers a little too short for his lanky, seventeen-year-old frame. A schoolkid with tattoos; a rose and dagger on one forearm, a bird of paradise on the other. A small town, man-boy, out of his depth in this adult world, but recklessly swimming around anyway, with teenage abandon. He copied everyone else in the way he dressed (cheaply) and how he wore his hair; firmly in hold courtesy of all the sticky Cossack For Men hairspray, with a sweeping side parting at the front, back combed at the sides to a shoulder length mullet at the back, resting over his shirt collar. In his head he looked like Tony Hadley. Or Nick Heyward. But he didn’t.

Frank had never really been a catch, but tonight, this was the place to be - the place to get caught, if ever there was one. Your chances of finding a girlfriend were greatly increased here in the crowd of teenagers that shared taxis or scrounged lifts after the pubs closed, to travel the four miles out of town to the only nightclub around, at a windswept crossroads in the middle of nowhere.

A single story, dirty-white building turned yellow under a sodium streetlamp, surrounded by the black night, hiding nothing but farms and fields. An arched veranda on the entrance side gave it a fake Spanish ranch appearance but fooled no one.

And whose idea was it anyway to build the only nightclub in town, massively inconveniently out of town?

The scruffy white exterior lit up with the arrival of sweeping headlights, as cars bounced through the muddy puddles in the pot holed carpark. Burly bouncers watched over the excitable teenage queue all lined up at the little window where a crabby old lady demanded a fiver each, or free to the girls before 10pm.

Once inside, through the heavy fake colonial wooden doors and into the darkness - past the fake plants around the bubbling, raised fishpond in the centre of what would ten years later probably be called a chill out zone, that conveniently also included the burger and chips hatch, and then through further shadowy arches into the epicentre of small town excitement: the low-ceilinged nightclub dancefloor, aka disco, see also discotheque.

Like a cross between Saturday Night Fever and the Mos Eisley Cantina; here the dancefloor didn’t light up, but the circular tables around the edge of the darkened room did, uplighting the nineteen eighties make up on the faces of the huddled girls all clutching a Pernod and Black and watching the action from the safety of a booth.

The action was also why Frank was here; after-hours lager, fags, loud music, and boys meeting girls.

It was late. It was dark. It was loud. Frank lit another cigarette.

He seemed to have been here for hours. His pockets felt light of change, and this was his last JPS smoke. His head was a little dizzy, his senses a bit dulled by the beer.

Then the pumping excitement of the Jacksons’ Can You Feel It? suddenly tailed off and was replaced by the slower beat of a ballad - the internationally recognised signal for the nightclubbers, the dancers and drinkers, to pair up, and be thrilled by getting the chance to hold each other close, and who knows? perhaps a kiss.

Fat Larry kicked it off with a fat melody that unapologetically rhymed zoom, boom and moon. The cocky DJ told everyone it was time to slow it down a bit - Ladies…Gents…Lovers….

Gossiping girlfriends grabbed their hesitant boyfriends and hauled them onto the dancefloor, interrupting boys’ tales of last week’s fight in the carpark. Single boys took the chance to take the hand of the good-looking girl they’d been eyeing all night, and single girls found the courage, or were pushed by their friends, into grabbing surprised boys and hauling them out to dance before they could think about resisting.

Frank reclined on his elbows at the long bar that ran the length of room. Was that the time? It’s nearly the end of the night. But this was the awkward bit he wasn't so keen on. If he wasn’t careful this could go wrong. This bit was where he was most out of his depth. He was still new to all this, and truth is, he’d never yet dared to ask a girl to dance. They all seemed to know what they were doing, operating on another level. None of the girls had shown the slightest bit of attention in him, so why would they agree to a dance? He didn’t think he could deal with the rejection. Last week he managed to avoid the slow dances by stretching out a very loud and competitive game of pinball in the corner with Gary. He had pretended he hadn’t even noticed couples were coupling up. Other weeks he conveniently had to go to the loo, and last week he merged into the group of boys at the edge of the dancefloor, pints and fags in hand, laughing at a school mate who was more than a bit worse for wear, and had been dragged onto the floor by an eager girl who could eat him alive. But tonight, it was a different story, where was everyone? It seemed all Frank’s mates had already coupled up. So tonight, he was on his own, and feeling very conscious this could go very wrong indeed if he ended up exposed, looking like a loser, a johnny no-mates, a flop with the girls.

It was late. It was dark. It was loud.

Frank leant back and looked left and right along the bar which had quickly become deserted as the drinkers departed and led each other by the hand onto the dancefloor.

He surveyed the room, ever so casually. Stay cool Frank, he assured himself internally, Stay calm…. but hang on...

The last departing group to his right had suddenly exposed a solitary girl, also standing with her back to bar, not ten feet away, twisting her necklace self-consciously, and also alone, watching the dancefloor. Fat Larry crooned his way through the best love song of the early eighties, and the girl kept her fixed forward stare, intently watching the dancers.

Frank stared straight forward again, working the situation out in his head. She’s on her own, right? So wasn’t she aware there was just one guy left, also on his own, standing to her left at the same bar, no more than three or four steps away, freely available? On his own as well? She must have known.

Frank’s pulse raced. Stay calm, Frank. This is it. You just have to ask her to dance. Simple. This is it, mate. She’s bound to say yes. Isn’t she?

He turned her way slowly to grab his pint off the bar beside him, and to take the opportunity to very casually look her way without being obvious, and all of a sudden, his stomach turned over, and his heart raced...

He knew this girl! Or rather he used to know this girl. And she knew him. They hadn’t spoken together for years, not since primary school. But she knew him. She knew who he was. She bloody knew who he was. So, was she standing there on purpose? Had she spotted Frank earlier? Crikey - was she standing there to signal she wanted to dance with Frank? Bloody hell!

Frank was still very much a novice when it came to girls and signals. His world was as straight foreword as any boy who had yet to have steady girlfriend. He had yet to learn about awkward silences phone call, about being in trouble without having the faintest clue as to what it might be, yet to learn that if he ever asked, the sulky answer would always be nothing’s wrong. All-important signals flew right past Frank’s head invisibly, and in flocks. So if this was a signal, it was not received loud and clear.

She knew him! And he used to know her.

Seven years earlier, they’d been friends, well as much friends as ten-year-old boys and girls could be. Nothing said out loud of course, but they were in the same class, hung out at playtimes, and she walked home most of his way after school. Frank had liked her, and she laughed at his silly jokes and pranking around. The pre-pubescent Frank had no idea what was going on inside him, but still got a thrill from making her laugh, and when it came to the dreaded school country dancing lessons where the teachers seemed devilishly delighted in the squirming embarrassment of boys dancing with girls, Frank has tried to position himself to get to dance with her. He couldn’t make it obvious, but if he had to dance with one of the girls, he wanted it to be her. But every time, it had never quite worked out. But was he imagining it, or did she look over her shoulder at him that time, while she was dancing with someone else?

They were friends. That was all.

So what a shocker. Here she was, and all grown up, all frizzy perm, multiple Madonna necklaces and Cyndi Lauper attitude. He hadn’t seen her for years, but she looked great, and surely now way out of his league?

Well, way out his league normally, but this time he had a head start. She knew him. She bloody knew him! And she knew he was funny – she had liked him then and perhaps still had a soft spot for him, even now? And she was standing just there, surely signalling to him that she wanted to dance! Bloody hell!

Fat Larry faded out and was seamlessly replaced by Houston, smooth as silk and without any unnecessary interruptions from the DJ. Some dancers peeled away, but not many, as the chancers amongst the dancers hung right in there to make sure their partners stayed in situ, and carried on into the next song where Whitney confessed about Always Loving You. On into the next song and perhaps a step closer to a snog.

Of course, at the end of that last summer term, and all that country dancing, Secondary School had beckoned. And that meant separate comprehensives for boys and girls, miles away at either end of the town. It was just how it was; the small-town deal again, no one really questioned it. Boys and girls might have been together on Grange Hill, but that was the telly, and might as well been another planet.

So opportunities to meet the girls from the Girls School were rare. And Frank still had hobbies and sports to work out of his system with the enthusiasm of a pre-teenage boy; train sets and trainspotting, football and fishing, model planes and tanks, air rifles and custom bikes. Girls weren’t really needed for a year or two. They weren’t banned or anything, just not essential, so their absence was not really noted. And as he got into his early teens, he sometimes glimpsed some of the girls in their school uniforms down the high street at lunchtime, but not to hang out with or anything. That was just the way it was.

It was late. It was dark. It was loud.

Frank’s right leg was shaking a little.

His mouth was dry. He swigged back a gulp of frothy Fosters, and wiped his mouth on his short sleeve, regretting it instantly. Leaning back and switching his crossed ankles, he took the opportunity to shake his jumpy leg.

Right – this is it. She is bound to say yes. Surely?

Frank pictured himself taking her hand and leading her to the dancefloor to join the swaying couples, but quicky stopped the thought dead; you can’t just do that without saying anything? You are not Patrick Swayze, mate. You’ve got to say something. Something cool. Oh shit.

Frank suddenly felt a little bit pissed. Fear spread up from his feet and reached his stomach. He fought it off: but surely everyone’s a little bit pissed, aren't they? With a tongue in his cheek, he pushed back his shoulders to fight off the doubts.

Then the next wave of fear nearly floored him. He’d not really done a slow dance before.

You can’t dance mate! The doubts returned with a kick.

Frank buckled a bit mentally before regaining his balance. It’ll be easy. It’s probably the easiest dance to do anyway, as all everyone seemed to do was just waddle from side to side, holding each other’s waist and turning around and around slowly. No, this is stupid. It’ll be fine.

The bar had now closed behind him, which at least stopped him from ordering another pint of dutch courage. It was time to take decisive action.

It was late. It was dark. It was loud.

Houston tailed off and was replaced by the unmistakable saxophone opening of Careless Whisper.

So where had she been until now? Why hadn’t he heard her name mentioned by anyone since they had left school? Some of Frank’s mates had girlfriends, and Frank got to meet and hang out with them a bit now, and though he was useless at getting his own girlfriend, he got on really great with his mates’ girlfriends, in a totally non-threatening, no danger of becoming a boyfriend kind of way.

On weekends, the boys and girls still went out in their different groups, individually roaming town and crawling pubs, flirting or pairing off when they met more than getting together as a mixed group. But not flirting or pairing off with Frank.

Dad had given him the talk in the front garden on a Sunday morning; Dad was pruning roses as sixteen-year-old Frank returned shamefaced from a house party where he had defied his parents and stayed overnight - I’m talking about sex here, Frank warned Dad. If only he had known there was Bob Hope of Frank getting anyone pregnant. Truth was, he was trying his bloody hardest, but still seemed years away from actually losing his virginity.

Frank jumped out of his latest daydream, realising George Michael was nearly at the chorus. How many slow songs do they play anyway? This was the second one. No - third one! This might be the last chance. And you can’t ask a girl to dance right at the closing bit of a song. Frank hadn’t been nightclubbing for long, but even he knew all the lights go up at the end to make everyone go home. Wouldn’t he look a dick if they’d only just walked out onto the dancefloor, and it all finished?

Ok, here we go, now or never, one last sup of lager, and here we go - drawing a deep breath, he turned to her – here we go, here I go...1,2,3..

It was late. It was dark. She was gone.

Frank stood there stunned. A big lump rose from somewhere and stuck in his throat. He couldn’t move. His body was frozen as he realised what had happened. His head was reeling. This wasn't the plan. He darted his eyes around the room, looking for her, but without moving his head.

Seconds later, the song finished and immediately the lights went up, and everyone shielded their eyes from the glare.

And as the DJ rambled on about see you next week or something, ever so quickly and slickly, Frank slipped into the buzzing, laughing throng of night-clubbers heading for the open fire doors, and out into the chilly night.