Книга - Shimmer

Shimmer
Amanda Roberts


A 100% official Strictly Come Dancing novel, featuring the dancers, stars and judges you love!What if an ordinary girl's Strictly dreams became a glittering reality?Meet Amanda Roberts: a production runner on the set of Strictly Come Dancing, desperate to fit into the world of the dazzling and the beautiful. And when she discovers all the backstage drama, Amanda wonders if she is tough enough to survive.But then things start to change…And incredibly she finds more GLITZ, more MAGIC and more ROMANCE than she could possibly have imagined.Prepare to be dazzled as you tango into the glamour and mayhem of the world behind the glitter ball.PREPARE TO BE SHIMMERED!







Strictly SHIMMER

THE NOVEL BY

AMANDA ROBERTS







For all the Strictly fans out there.

Keep dancing, even if you don’t know

what the next step is!


Contents

Cover (#ub0e6a24a-c06b-53ca-a92f-535a49b0d879)

Title Page (#u0945c1ff-86b0-5143-843d-43d631550b18)



Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Acknowledgements



Copyright

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue

The first time I walked onto the dance floor, I had to pretend I wasn’t gawping. My eyes must have been spinning like disco balls as I tried to take it all in. I gripped the clipboard I had just been handed as tightly as I could, in the desperate hope that this might keep me calm. Chloe, my new colleague, walked straight across the dance floor as if it were nothing more than a studio, and I trotted along behind her, trying to keep my pulse rate – and my eyes – down.

Nothing could stop me from inhaling the atmosphere though. The springiness of the floor, the way that the audience chairs were all neatly fastened together to keep them in perfect straight lines, the sweeping staircases glistening, despite the relative darkness of the studio. But it was the smell that did it: the unmistakable theatrical smell that I had forgotten existed. It brought back memories of the school plays I’d taken part in as a kid. And here it was again. The set was drenched in it. I took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on what I was being told.

‘This is where you’ll stand during the show,’ Chloe said, pointing up at the only undecorated area on the set. I gasped. It was the least sparkly spot; in fact it was pretty much bare. Directly facing the staircase, it was the one angle that I had never seen on television. But it was unquestionably the one with the best view. And now it was my view. I grinned, then quickly composed myself, attempting to look as serious and efficient as possible.

‘I see,’ I replied, my brow faux-furrowed. I added a slow nod for emphasis.

Chloe was talking so fast she barely seemed to draw breath, and yet she seemed entirely calm. I knew that she had worked on the show for a couple of years, but I was mystified as to how she was so immune to the magic of it all. The headset she was wearing was the only real clue to her role – without it she could have been a visiting student. She was wearing a pair of baggy corduroy jeans, a V-neck T-shirt and a brightly coloured hooded top. With, of course, a pair of pink Converse trainers. Her face was entirely free from make-up and she had tied her fair hair back into a scruffy ponytail. She looked as if she might have once been capable of being a right laugh, but had been working too hard, taking everything a bit too seriously, for too long. I imagined she was only about thirty, but she had an ultra-responsible side to her, which would win out every time anyone suggested something as avant-garde as ‘having some fun’.

She was dressed as comfortably as someone who did most of their job on their feet needed to be, and yet she didn’t actually look that comfortable in her own skin. Mind you, nor was I. It had become apparent within moments of arriving that I was hopelessly over-dressed for the role of a production runner: a floral patterned tea dress, expensive tights and a pair of patent leather ballerinas. Overcompensating for my nerves had not resulted in a good look. My attempts to coordinate ‘showing respect for the job’ (by wearing a frock) with ‘practicality’ (by wearing flat shoes) had left me looking like I was Chloe’s boss, not the other way around. Chloe seemed unconcerned though. She had barely glanced at what I was wearing, so great was her devotion to her holy trio of clipboard, headphones and BlackBerry. She continued to fire facts and details at me like a tennis-ball machine. I was frantically scribbling down what I could when a voice from the other end of the stage bellowed, ‘Hello ladies! Fancy seeing you here …’

I turned round to see someone galloping down the stage stairs towards us. He too was dressed rather like a student: crumpled jeans, lumberjack boots and a faded dark grey sweatshirt. He had neat dark blond hair and was good-looking in a cuddly, soft-cheeked way.

‘Aha, here you are, Matt’ said Chloe as he approached.

He was gripping a polystyrene cup in his left hand and immediately extended his free hand towards me. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m Matt. I’m going to be working alongside you this series.’

‘Yes, Matt is a fellow AP. Just been promoted to Assistant Producer.’

We shook hands.

‘Great, lovely to meet you,’ I replied. His hand was warm, and his eyes had a twinkle that made me think he wouldn’t be unwelcome in a boy band. He blew onto the steam coming off the top of the cup.

‘What do you think?’ he asked.

‘Of the set?’

‘Of course the set! Not bad is it? Not bad …’

‘Not bad, it’s incredible!’ I replied, relieved to finally find someone I could express a smidgen of my excitement to. Matt grinned.

‘Yup, it’s pretty special. For what it is.’

Chloe was frowning down at her BlackBerry. She seemed to have forgotten we were there.

‘I can’t believe I’m actually here,’ I continued. ‘It seems so much smaller than on TV. But still so … magical.’

‘But have you seen the—?’ he stopped mid-sentence. ‘Hold on. Just wait there.’ Matt darted off between a row of gold audience chairs and disappeared behind the wooden walls of the set. I looked around awkwardly as Chloe tapped away at her BlackBerry.

‘LOOK UP!’ Matt’s voice boomed out from behind the walls. I did as I was told. Three huge disco balls were suspended from the ceiling, dwarfing the hundreds of TV lights that were also dangling from the metallic ropes above. Then, slowly, they began to turn. At first it was a little unnerving. The momentum that their slow turning generated made it seem as if it were the rest of the set that was moving, not them. The effect was magical. They were properly spinning now, casting their sparkly chinks of light across everything beneath them. Their movement made me imagine I was dancing myself, as I remembered all the nights I had got myself to sleep by pretending I was waltzing across a gleaming ballroom floor.

Then, just as suddenly, they stopped. I caught sight of Matt waving through a glass pane high above the stage, above the area I’d be standing in during the performances. He seemed to have gone up to the lighting gallery especially to put on this little show for me. With a quick smile he disappeared from view, then reappeared on the ballroom floor a minute later.

‘Just a little something I like to do for the newcomers.’ His twinkly eyes were even twinklier with mischief, and he gave me a little bow.

‘Wow, thank you. Seeing that was pretty much the only reason I wanted to work here. I think I’ve peaked. I should probably just leave now.’

I’m not quite sure where the courage for such banter had come from. I seemed to have forgotten all about Chloe, who had by now taken a seat in the front row and was focussed entirely on her emails. She looked up sharply.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said, staring suspiciously at the two of us. ‘Come along, Amanda. We’ve got paperwork to do. Matt – we’ll meet you at reception in fifteen. We have to collect Amanda’s pass anyway.’

She continued her brusque walk across the set, pointing out cables of different lengths on the floor behind the audience chairs, careful to make sure that I stepped, rather than tripped, over them. I just about had time to look over my shoulder and wave a quick goodbye to Matt as I trotted off behind her. I was thrilled that I had found someone who seemed as enthusiastic about the job as I was, despite Chloe’s apparent attempts to make everything seem as tedious as possible. I followed her along seemingly endless corridors barely absorbing any of what she was saying, as she talked me through the basics of my new job. Deep down I was really only thinking one thing: I’m here. I’m at Strictly Come Dancing. I’ve made it.

My heart was still racing by the time we got back to BBC TV Centre’s imposing reception area. I had always dreamt of working in live TV but this was the first time I had really grasped how much responsibility it entailed. It had all seemed rather abstract before, when I was just the work experience girl. There was so much to remember. And that wasn’t including the names, the labyrinthine corridors of BBC TV centre and the strange unspoken hierarchy that seemed to exist among senior and junior members of the team. Matt had seemed so friendly and approachable, but Chloe was significantly more frosty, despite her relaxed-looking fashion choices.

I glanced up at the huge news ticker running across the glass doorways. There were people milling around reception, generally looking busy, clutching cups of coffee and scanning the faces of those who were seated, trying to work out who their next meeting was with. A small queue had formed at the security desk and it seemed like most people were waiting for their visitor passes to be put together. I spotted Matt at the front of the queue talking to one of the security team. He turned around and smiled at us, holding out a BBC pass with a name and face on it. Mine. ‘Welcome to Strictly,’ he said. ‘You’re one of the family now.’ One of the family …

I smiled back and put the pass around my neck. I felt like a Jim’ll Fix It guest, glowing with excitement at having been granted my special wish. Except instead of a Jim’ll Fix It badge, I had a BBC pass. Same difference, as far as I was concerned. Mindful that I should perhaps seem like a glacial model of broadcasting efficiency, I maintained a dignified expression. It lasted approximately three seconds, before I yelped ‘Yeay!!!’ Matt winked at me. Chloe looked as if she were doing her best not to roll her eyes.

‘Come on then. We’d better get to the office,’ she said.

The rest of the day was a blur of information, responsibilities and titles that I had no hope of remembering for at least a couple of weeks. I was still buzzing from the set visit, so I pushed any anxieties about my ability to actually do the job to the back of my mind and got on with taking notes on almost everything Chloe said. Matt continued to pop up through the day, asking if he could get us tea or coffee whenever he was off to the kitchen, and chipping in to clarify some of Chloe’s more pedantic explanations. His version always seemed a bit more straightforward. Hours later, Chloe told me that my working day was done, and that she would see me at the same time tomorrow. She had barely finished her sentence before her eyes were back on her BlackBerry screen.

When I eventually left TV Centre and stepped into the London drizzle it was already dusk. I headed for the pedestrian crossing, trying to splash as little as possible of the mulchy grey puddles all over my smart new tights. Natalie, my elder sister, had given them to me for the job interview, and made no secret of telling me that the precious Wolfords had cost her £15 – for tights! The woman was insane, but I did appreciate the gesture. I couldn’t doubt the fact that my big sister had really wanted me to get the job, even if she thought Lycra-clad legs would be the key to my success. Either way, the Wolfords had now become a bit of a good luck talisman and I was determined to keep them safe. I decided to scurry across the road and into Westfield Shopping Centre to take back something for supper to say thank you. The rain was coming down a little harder by the time the traffic stopped at the crossing, so I broke into a run as I reached the pavement on the other side. As I did so, I leapt inelegantly onto an unexpectedly wobbly paving stone, which squelched down into a pool of water, entirely soaking my foot. As I stumbled, I banged into an enormous male chest that I hadn’t noticed approaching.

‘Youch!’ I yelped, and looked up, standing on my remaining dry leg, to see one of the most extraordinary men I had ever clapped eyes on. He had pale hair and lightly tanned skin, but his face was just a blur of attractiveness. Perhaps there was an enormous pair of brown eyes. Most of all, I was left breathless by the Wall-of-ManChest, which remained immobile.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked. I couldn’t quite work out his accent. He sounded foreign, but in a non-specific way that made it hard for me to place him. I continued to shake my soggy foot, and in doing so flicked my patent leather ballet pump off and into the puddle I had just stepped in.

‘Yes. I, er, the puddle,’ was all I could muster.

He looked at my shoe, and slowly bent down to pick it up for me. As he leant forward I copped a quick glimpse of the soft blond hair peeking out above the deep V of his T-shirt. The one leg I was left standing on nearly collapsed. He bent down, picked up my poor bedraggled shoe, shook it off and gave it a quick wipe with a tissue he’d pulled out from the pocket of his enormous hoodie. Then, he handed it back.

‘There you go, Cinderella.’

‘Thank you,’ I gasped. He smiled at me and I managed a goofy half smile back. My tights were suddenly immaterial, as were my shoes: I am quite sure I floated the rest of the way to Westfield.


Chapter 1

By the time I finally arrived back at my sister’s flat I was drenched. The faux-fur collar on my coat was matted like soggy cat fur and drops of rain were dripping off my eyelashes. Any Strictly sparkle I’d had had long since gone, although my memory of the Giant Man Chest certainly lingered.

There was one thought keeping me going, as I finally turned the key in Natalie’s front door: fishcakes. Determined to pull my weight while I was a houseguest, I had shunned any form of supermarket own-brand food and had splashed out on some delicious fishcakes, a bottle of wine that cost well over the five pounds I would usually spend, and some fancy dark chocolate. I would be a dream of a younger sister, oh yes I would.

I had deliberately shaken off my umbrella on the porch of her gorgeous south London flat and entered feeling full of optimism and goodwill. Sadly, my happiness was short-lived as one of the shopping bags split and its soggy contents spilled out over Natalie’s immaculate fawn carpet. Her head poked round the kitchen door just as I was hurriedly trying to scoop the contents off the floor and into the remaining bag.

Natalie smiled tightly. I was on my knees, frantically scooping like a guilty dog owner in the park. I looked up at her.

‘I’ve brought us dinner!’ I said, brushing the carpet breezily with my hand in the hope that the soggy patch I had left would just … go away.

‘I’ll get a cloth,’ she replied and soon re-emerged from the kitchen with a clean, brightly coloured cloth folded into neat quarters.

‘I’m so sorry – the packaging must have pierced the bag …’

‘It’s fine, it’s fine.’ I wasn’t sure that it was.

‘Honestly, don’t worry about it. But I would really prefer it if you didn’t cook fishcakes in the flat. I can’t stand the smell and in this weather I can’t open the back door to get rid of it. I’ve made some spaghetti bolognese. It’s on the hob.’

‘Okay, sure. At least try the wine though, it’s a nice one.’

‘Thanks. But Lloyd and I don’t really drink during the week. If you just leave it on the side, I’m sure we’ll have it sometime soon.’

I stayed crouching by the soggy carpet a couple of moments longer, as if just being there might somehow help clear up my mess. Terrified of the damage my enormous, still-damp coat could do in the pristine bedroom I was staying in, I took it off and laid it over the edge of the bath. By the time I reached the bedroom I was shuffling, afraid of each and every clean white surface in there, and convinced that any sudden movement would bring the silver-framed photographs crashing down. Having run a hand across the back of my dress to check for hideous black marks, I plonked myself down on the edge of the downy duvet and let out a mighty sigh.

It wasn’t that my fishcakes had been rejected, and anyway I loved Natalie’s bolognese. And it wasn’t that she had been terse with me about sullying her immaculate home – I’d deserved it. It was that I felt I would never be able to repay Natalie and her husband, Lloyd, for their kindness. I was only a couple of years younger than Natalie but it felt as if she had somehow unlocked a Life Code that meant she was several levels ahead of me in the game called Being a Proper Grown-Up. Well, that and the fact that I owed it to her that I had the job at Strictly at all.

Since graduating from university my life had lurched from crisis to sulk and back to crisis while I slowly drove my entire family mad. I’d struggled this first year: many of my friends were still studying and many were working abroad. I’d felt lost without them, not to mention lonely, and the adult world of work had started to feel entirely out of my grasp. Torn between squandering my savings in London trying to get experience working in TV, and staying at home among the hedges of Surrey with my parents – safe in the short term but pointless in the long term – I had failed to make any proper decisions about anything for the upcoming year.

For a week I would be filled with righteous fury that I had to wait on tables at Sergio’s, the local Italian restaurant on the high street. Then I would spend a week agonising over whether to bin the job and take up an offer of some unpaid work experience in a weird, forgotten TV studio in Zone 6. A week later I would fill in a bunch of applications and find myself secretly hoping that I didn’t get any of the jobs. After all, that was the only fail-safe method I could think of to stop me from ever finding out if I was really good enough for the competitive world of live TV. And shortly after that the seemingly inevitable job rejections would start to flow in and I would shift from silent terror to full-blown adolescent sulk.

I spent a summer at Sergio’s trying – and failing – not to splash bolognese on my white waitressing shirt even before the customers had started to arrive. When I could take it no more, I switched to temping in various local businesses. I hadn’t accounted for the fact that temps are the only workplace life form given less respect than waitresses. Plus my enthusiasm for trying to work out how to use a different photocopier every week was also waning. After six months my parents were beginning to drop increasingly obvious hints that I needed to move out, and I knew deep down that if I really wanted to work in TV, I was going to have to swallow my fears and make a decision one way or the other.

As the longest and most dreary summer of my life was drawing to a longed-for close, everything changed. I was lying on the sofa as usual, devoting a little time to my now favourite pastime: convincing myself that the nearest I would ever get to a TV studio would be as a novelty act on Britain’s Got Talent (‘Ladies and Gentlemen! The Incredible Sulk!’). Then I heard the phone ringing in the kitchen. Mum, who was expecting a call from her friend Jen, leapt to pick it up. Moments later I heard her call me.

‘Amanda! Your sister wants a word!’

What fresh hell is this? I thought to myself. Surely she hasn’t found a new way to boss me around already? I only saw her on Sunday …

I took the phone from my mum and held it to my ear.

‘Tata dada, tata daaaaa,’ Natalie was singing down the line.

‘What’s up?’ I replied, wondering why she was so happy. She’s normally a Grade A jobsworth, only interested in her feisty law career and in trying to mould me into someone as ambitious and successful as she is.

‘Strictly! Strictly!’ she shrieked down the phone, giggling. For someone usually so po-faced, she sounded positively delirious.

‘Seriously, what are you talking about?’

‘There’s a job going at Strictly Come Dancing, and Lloyd says he can help you with the application!’

I picked at the fabric on the edge of the sofa’s arm. A tiny bit of fluff came away in my hand.

‘Jobs don’t just come up at Strictly,’ I replied. ‘They must be impossible to get.’

‘Well, this one is being advertised and everything. We’re going to come down at the weekend and take a look at your application. It’s made for you! No one loves dancing like you do, and now’s your chance to be a part of it.’

She was right. I did love dancing, and this did seem like a big opportunity. But did I dare go for it? After the bleak summer I had had, my confidence was at an all-time low, and all I could think was that I didn’t really feel like humiliating myself in front of a room full of hot-shot BBC executives. What if I applied and didn’t get the job? I wasn’t sure I could take any more bad news. And I wasn’t sure my parents could take any more of my misery-guts attitude. I was one rejected application away from regressing into a full-blown emo teen. And that was not going to be pretty.

‘But I …’

‘I won’t take it any more. I can’t. You have to keep going, Amanda. You know you want to do this. I will not be a witness to you wriggling out of it. See you Sunday. And make brownies.’ Natalie was right. This was more than just a chance at a dream job in telly, it was a chance to get closer to my actual dream – dancing. Pretty much as soon as I could walk I wanted to dance, but it had somehow always stayed in the realms of fantasy to me.

A few days later Natalie and Lloyd had arrived in a flurry of glamorous autumn-wear and all-consuming capability. I had felt strangely nervous when I heard her Audi pulling up outside the house, then faintly amused as I watched her piling poor Lloyd’s open arms with a ridiculously huge bunch of flowers, two pairs of walking boots and swathes of cashmere scarves. A moment later …

‘Hiyyyaaaaa! We’re here!’

Mum squealed and ran to the back door to let them in. Dad pottered up from the garden to greet them. I remained where I was in my bedroom, wishing I had thought to put on something a little more attractive than my usual track-suit bottoms and cardigan. I didn’t want Lloyd to think that he was helping a total layabout. I quickly applied a bit of make-up and tried to zhoosh my hair up slightly, then sauntered downstairs.

Sunday lunch passed in the usual blur of misheard conversations and ludicrous anecdotes.

‘… so he asked me for legal advice while he was cutting my hair and I ended up with this ridiculous fringe that I never even asked for!’

‘… yes, I’ve painted all of the window sills at the back and then next weekend I’m hoping to make a start on the front of the house …’

‘… so I asked the butcher and he said that it’s Mrs Dawson who eats most of the bacon, not her husband!’

‘… oh the traffic was mostly fine, and Natalie’s new clutch made all the difference when we hit a little congestion coming out of London …’

I realised I wasn’t going to get a word in edgeways and so concentrated on loading my plate with as much egg mayonnaise as I thought I could manage. Oh life, how full of challenge and romance you are …

‘… so what do you think, Amanda?’

I looked up suddenly, a little sad to leave behind my eggy daydream. I had zoned out of the conversation to the point that I hadn’t even realised Natalie was now talking to me.

‘Hmm?’

‘About staying?’ Natalie was looking at me expectantly. As, I realised, were my mum, dad and Lloyd.

‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t really listening,’ I replied, sheepishly.

Natalie rolled her eyes. Mum clasped her hands. And Lloyd looked as if this might be a good time for him to take his wife’s Audi for another spin.

‘Amanda, your sister has kindly offered to let you stay with her if you get the job at Strictly. Indefinitely. So that’s one thing you don’t have to worry about.’ Dad was smiling at me hopefully. Despite the tensions of the last year he had always retained a steady faith in me that I found touching to the point of embarrassment. How could he still believe in my abilities in this way? He clearly had no doubt that I would breeze though the interviews and accommodation was my only remaining challenge. I couldn’t bear to disappoint him. It was time to swallow my pride.

‘Wow, thank you guys!’ I smiled at the faces staring back at me. Perhaps if I could convince them I thought I had a shot at the job, I could convince myself. ‘That is really kind. Hopefully I won’t let you down this time.’

Unbelievably, I didn’t. The next couple of weeks passed in a whirlwind of applications and interviews, and before I had a chance to breathe I was walking out of a production office at the BBC, having been told that I was down to the final three for the job. And a fortnight after that I was sitting on the edge of the bed in Natalie’s guest room, too scared to move in case I messed up anything, and too tired to begin unpacking my suitcase.

The comforting smell of freshly cooked bolognese began to waft into the room, but it did little to quell my nerves. I slumped onto the enormous heap of white broderie anglaise pillows, and stared at the ceiling for a while. I had to make this job work, I had to. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, before sitting up and going back into the kitchen, smiling.

‘So, what can I do to help?’ I asked casually.

‘Unload the dishwasher, get some plates out for the three of us and …’

‘And what?’

Natalie paused, wiping her hands on the fluffy little Cath Kidston hand towel by the kitchen sink.

‘Don’t mess this job up, Amanda. Just please, don’t mess this job up. Just try to relax, and enjoy it.’

‘What she said!’ yelled Lloyd from his position in front of the TV. ‘And no snogging the dancers!’

As if.


Chapter 2

For the next few days I made sure that I was up and showered before Natalie and Lloyd woke up. I crept to the bathroom, praying that they wouldn’t hear the boiler, and tried to get out of the flat before seven-thirty, having put two teabags into two mugs and left them by the kettle.

They had done nothing specific to make me feel unwelcome, but each time I sat absentmindedly watching TV and enjoying a chocolate digestive, Natalie would loom over me with a side plate, saying nothing, yet everything, with a tight smile.

I didn’t want to abuse their hospitality any more than I wanted to feel like an unwelcome guest, so I tried to stay out of their way whenever possible. Consequently, I was the first one in the production office for the initial few days of the job. By Thursday things had changed: I arrived at my usual hour – which would have been cripplingly early for me only a couple of weeks ago – but the office was nearly full. Once I’d hung up my coat I wandered over to Matt’s desk.

‘Oh, hey there,’ he smiled. He slid his arm around the back of his computer monitor to turn it on. Once again he was wearing an outfit that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a student. The same jeans as earlier in the week, but this time he had some sort of semi-coat, semi-lumberjack shirt on.

‘Hi,’ I said casually, trying not to betray the fact that I had been momentarily distracted by his chosen look for the day. ‘Tea? Coffee? I’m off to the kitchen.’

‘I’d kill for a coffee, thank you, lovely,’ he replied.

‘No problem, coming right up. Hey, what’s the deal with everyone being in so early today? Usually I have the place to myself.’

‘First live broadcast tomorrow, isn’t it? They might not be voting anyone off this weekend but it’s the first show. This is calm compared to what you’ll see in thirty-six hours.’

‘Oh my God, of course. I can’t believe it’s Thursday already. I’d be sick with nerves if I was one of them. How are they doing? Anyone seen the dances yet?’

‘Well, we’ll be down there most of the day and we’ve got lots of rehearsal footage now so you’ll find out soon enough.’

‘Down on the studio floor?’ I asked lightly, secretly thrilled that I was getting to grips with the Strictly lingo.

‘Yup,’ replied Matt. ‘Now then, coffee?’

‘Coming up …’

By the time I wandered back from the kitchen Chloe was at her desk, taking her coat off and hooking it over the back of her chair.

‘Oooh, I’ve just put on the kettle,’ I said. ‘Do you want something?’

‘No thanks, we haven’t got the time. I just need to check a few emails and then we should get down to the studio floor,’ she barked.

Matt appeared behind her and put his hand out for the coffee, making a mock serious face at me on hearing Chloe’s tone. She looked up and nearly caught him.

‘While I’m doing this, why don’t you go and familiarise yourself with the professionals? We don’t want any name muddles, people being directed to the wrong dressing room, incorrect names on cue cards et cetera.’

I could barely believe this was my job, and scuttled off to the enormous planning board at the other end of the production office, with Matt by my side. On the wall was an enormous collage of all of the professionals and their celebrity partners. Pinned to them were names, swatches of fabric, small lengths of beading and ribbon, images of couture dresses cut from fashion magazines and some newspaper cuttings from stories that had already run about the show. It was part mood board, part reference point and part planner. There was a whiteboard next to it with a table containing the first few weeks of allocated dance styles.

I gazed up at the faces on the collage. Some were familiar, but others were completely unknown to me. It was disconcerting to see a photograph of the notorious female politician beaming down from between an elegant snapshot of Erin Boag and a cute image of Vincent Simone grinning into the camera. There was an instantly recognisable shot of one of the actresses, wearing a pair of dungarees, one of the rap star baring his shiny teeth, and a gorgeous paparazzi image of Flavia Cacace and Kristina Rihanoff walking along a pavement in tracksuit bottoms, hoodies and sheepskin boots chatting to each other. The entire wall was mesmerising, and I found myself staring.

My eyes drifted to the little corner with a handful of new faces. One was marked Artem Chigvintstev, one Robin Windsor and one Lars, but one of the names was obscured by a photograph of the feisty comedian wearing a pair of spectacles on the end of her nose, holding a textbook. I would never have thought that Artem and Robin, with their rugged features, were dancers. And Lars? Well, the picture of Lars just looked a bit like images I had seen in schoolbooks of Thor. Unmistakably Scandinavian, he had dark blond hair, tanned skin and ridiculously dark brown eyes that turned down on the outside corners. He was wearing a dinner jacket in the image, but there was little doubt that he was a big, sturdy guy. All in all, he was a confusing combination of hot Viking and adorable Andrex puppy. And yet, bizarrely, he seemed strangely familiar. I let out a deep sigh, and as I did I caught Matt looking at me. Hands on hips, one eyebrow raised, head tilted to one side, he was staring at me, willing me to drag my eyes from the board.

‘Tough gig, familiarising yourself with the new male professionals, hmm?’

‘Ha! You can talk. I’ve seen the way you look at pictures of Ola. You practically have her name scribbled on your pencil case.’

Good save. I wish I could have high-fived myself.

‘Oh come on, it’s Ola. Everyone’s in love with her. It barely counts!’

He had a point.

‘Well anyway, who are these guys? Where have they all come from?’ I pointed up at the crop of unfamiliar faces on the board.

Matt grabbed my arm and pulled it down to my side again. ‘How do you not know this?’ he hissed. ‘Keep your voice down or Chloe will kill you.’

I remembered with horror that the launch show had taken place before I had got the job, but after I had applied for it. I’d been so nervous about my application that I couldn’t bear to watch it, so I’d escaped to the cinema and only returned home hours later once the broadcast was over. The holes in my knowledge were suddenly revealing themselves. The first half of the week had been all about technicalities, but now the sudden realisation was dawning that real people were about to start turning up on the studio floor.

‘Oh man, I’m in trouble. Who are they all?’

‘Artem is from LA, via Russia and he’s worked in the States a lot. He looks considerably tougher than he actually is. Robin looks more exotic than he actually is – he grew up just outside of Ipswich. Jared is all about the boyband look – he’s toured with Glee and was in High School Musical. Then there’s Lars. He’s a bit of a wildcard. He’s Swedish, and he’s dancing with Kelly Bracken. Apparently he’s very quiet but very charming. And he’s pretty much Scandinavia’s biggest dance star.’

‘Wow, lucky Kelly.’

‘She could do with a bit of cheering up,’ he replied, with a chuckle.

I was thrilled to have found someone to exchange gossip with. Kelly had famously just turned thirty, and was busy filming her final scenes in the West Country soap, The Valley. She had been a lead for ten years, and had become something of a household name while dating her dashing co-star Jeremy Norman-Knott. But despite his reputation as one of the most charming men in TV, he had recently been up to no good with the star of a cheesy reality show. There had been accents. There had been outfits. And there had been a disloyal friend with a phone camera.

No one had come out of the situation well, not even Kelly, who had done a series of daytime TV interviews insisting, ‘I’m fine. No really, I’m absolutely fine.’ For all her tossing her glossy hair extensions over her shoulder she looked more than a little shaken up. She had spoken a little too freely to some of the weekly magazines about how perfect and impenetrable her relationship with Jeremy was, only to find herself regretting her earlier confidence as the full horror of his infidelity revealed itself. She was now a decade older than a lot of the girls she was up against for her next role, still broken-hearted and carrying the weight of a woman who had spent a lot of time reacquainting herself with her Slanket, her Friends DVD box set and a freezer full of Ben & Jerry’s. If anyone needed a hot Scandinavian to throw them around the dance floor in front of a gobsmacked nation, it was Kelly Bracken. And I was delighted that Matt had realised that.

‘You are not kidding,’ I replied. ‘I hope she turns up looking sensational and shows us what she’s really made of.’

‘Okaaaaay,’ said Matt. ‘Sounds like somebody’s a little over-invested.’

‘Oh, come on,’ I said. ‘I thought you loved the show as much as I did.’

‘Well, yeah, I love the show. Because I love working on live TV, and on something with such a big audience. But my real dream is to work in news and documentaries, so it’s not as if I really care about every single dance.’

‘Oh.’ My voice was quieter than it had been all week. ‘I suppose I thought it was a big deal to you too. I feel a bit of an idiot for letting you know how much I love it now.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘It’s all great fun, but for me just not the dream, you know? I don’t really care about dancing. I don’t dance at parties or weddings – even the old folk show me up. It’s humiliating. And I can barely tell who’s doing well or not out there on the studio floor, so I tend to zone out and see it as just work. I like being part of the team that gets the right shot: that’s where the drama lies for me.’

‘But the disco balls? You gave me such an amazing welcome.’

‘Oh well, how could I not have done that for you when you were standing there all starry-eyed with Chloe slowly boring you to tears? You deserved to see it at its best on your first day.’

I was still a little disappointed by Matt’s confession but touched that he had made such an effort.

Tension continued to rise for the rest of the day. I was rushed off my feet, taking tapes of the dancers in rehearsal from the production office to the studio floor and back. When I wasn’t doing that, I was ferrying cups of tea and coffee, bottles of water and sandwiches to the production team. It was at lunchtime that I made my first trip to the production gallery, the hub of the operation, with its wall of monitors that gave a spectacular view of the set and the dance floor itself. The gallery faced the famous staircase and was positioned directly above the undecorated area of the set, where I would be standing during the show.

Natasha, the director, was in there with her team, looking down through the glass windows like the pilot of a spectacularly sparkly airplane. I was terrified about entering the room, knowing full well that some of the most important people on the Strictly team would be in there, including my own boss. The tension in there would be thick like smog. When I reached the door I carefully put down the tray of teas and coffees I had been asked to take them, then knocked a couple of times.

As I was standing there, Chloe came rushing out of the door, nearly tipping the drinks over.

‘Were you knocking?’

‘Yes, I didn’t want to disturb, or, um, come in during something important or confidential.’

‘Are you telling me that you didn’t know that the main production gallery door would be sound proofed?’

I suppose, I was really … The thing is, I did know that the door would be sound proofed – absolutely every part of a studio is. But in my anxiety to please everyone, and stay as unobtrusive yet helpful as possible, I had, well, I had forgotten. I was an absolute idiot.

‘Yes, of course I knew,’ I just about managed to stammer. ‘But I just wanted to make sure.’

‘Riiiight, well you don’t need to.’ Chloe made a big show of holding the door open for me and calling ‘Drinks coming through!’ as I entered the gallery. ‘And don’t put them down anywhere near the equipment. Liquid is lethal around here.’

My cheeks were burning even though no one else had seen our little interaction.

Things became even more tense by Friday. People had started to use fewer words per sentence, and replaced the lost verbs with cups of coffee. And – finally – the celebrities and dancers had started to populate the studio floor. Almost all afternoon was spent on the band rehearsal, which turned out to be the biggest test so far of my ability to remain calm and collected. There were several things that tampered with this aforementioned professionalism.

For starters, it was the first time I had seen any of the celebrities. Sure, I had seen celebrities before – my mum had taken Natalie and me to see countless dance shows in the West End when we were younger. Musicals had been my obsession – every birthday and Christmas the trip to London had been my biggest treat. I had done work experience on some low-rent cable channels, which had seen Big Brother contestants from years gone by lapping up the final remnants of their fifteen minutes of fame by presenting obscure game shows.

But these were Strictly celebs: a unique mixture of genuine icons, national treasures and sports legends … all of them doing something that was utterly new to them. It was that rarest of rare things – nervous celebrities, doing their best, but out of their comfort zone. I was transfixed.

The most common reaction to seeing a celebrity in real life is to compare them to the image you have been carrying around in your mind. It’s rarely an accurate image, but a kind of composite of your favourite of their screen appearances, the worst paparazzi shots you’ve ever seen of them, and perhaps a photo or two that you once snipped out of a magazine because you wanted hair, boots or a boyfriend like them. That picture will have been pinned to your cubicle at work, or carried around in your wallet until it’s all tatty. But the image is now ingrained and you’re left with a semi-false impression of what they actually look like. This is why the first thing that mere mortals say to celebrities is rarely: ‘Hello there. It is a pleasure to meet you. I am a great admirer of both your work and your style, and I look forward to many years of friendship with you.’ Instead, they might say: ‘Oh. Emm. Gee! You are so much taller in real life!’ or ‘Woah, you’re actually REALLY good looking!’

Like I said, it can be a self-respect Bermuda Triangle. Consequently, I was calm to the point of off-hand when I met the first batch of celebs. Matt and I were on another one of our endless caffeine runs, when the show’s director asked us to go down to the studio floor and see if anyone else wanted drinks. We left the production gallery and wandered sheepishly onto the edge of the dance floor.

‘Hi guys,’ said Matt. His gait and his lolloping arms betrayed no shred of nerves as he approached those waiting to dance. A few of them were sitting on the golden audience chairs between the band area and the judges’ desk. Everyone was pretending not to be doing it, but they were all looking at each other, trying to size up the competition. These weren’t the confident gods and goddesses I was used to seeing on screen. These were real people, and they looked nervous. Flavia and Kristina were using the backs of a couple of chairs for some hamstring stretches. Despite the tension in the air, they looked fabulous, in tight leotards and stockings with gold high heels. I caught myself tugging at my own clothes, trying to make sure my imperfections weren’t on display anywhere near them. Meanwhile, one of the celebrities, an ex-footballer who I remember my dad worshipping all through my childhood, was standing at the edge of the floor, running through steps in his head and counting furiously under his breath.

‘Hey,’ said Flavia, looking up at Matt.

‘Can we get you any drinks? Water, tea, coffee, whatever?’ he asked.

‘Yes, please.’ She looked over her shoulder at the others. ‘Guys? Drinks?’

Moments later I was jotting down the list of drinks, while not – I repeat NOT – standing there slack-jawed saying, ‘But Flavia, you’re tiny, so petite and beautiful!’ or ‘Oh wow, Brett, you sooo don’t look as tall in real life as you do on that soap. What are the sets made of? Dolls’ houses?’

By the time I returned from the canteen with Matt, each of us laden with a wobbling tray, the band rehearsal was well underway. It was no longer just the celebrities and their dancers standing around – the band were now in position and rehearsing the music with the dancers for the first time.

It had genuinely never occurred to me how important the music was to the show until that moment. But when I put down my tray and looked up to see Kristina deep in conversation with Gnasher, urgently marking out the beats with her fist in her palm, I realised that the relationship between the band’s performance and the dancers’ was totally co-dependent. A duff note could mean a duff step, and vice versa.

In the meantime, Kristina’s partner, a gregarious musician who’d once had a reputation as a bad boy and was now beloved of housewives (including my mum) up and down the country, was clowning around with the others gathered at the side of the stage. Confidently performing faux-elaborate moves while adding a little human beat box to the amusement of the gathered crowd, he had everyone eating out of the palm of his hand. Suddenly, Kristina clapped her hands and summoned him to the dance floor.

This was going to be the first time I had seen any actual dancing, so I was desperate not to head off set straight away. Matt clearly noticed, as when I looked up, he said with an enormous sense of purpose, ‘Er, Amanda, please could you check for cups and bottles we need to take back and throw away? Thanks.’

I tried to smile in gratitude, but the minute he had finished saying it he looked away, picked up his tray, his face utterly deadpan. Kristina and her partner took to the stage, and the familiar voiceover began to play on set.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen! Please welcome to the dance floor …’

I didn’t listen to the rest, mesmerised as I was by Kristina’s last-minute stretches. She appeared to be entirely flat at one point. Oh, to be a proper dancer, I thought to myself, remembering the years I had spent making up ridiculous routines with Natalie when we’d been younger.

Suddenly, the music began and the dancers sprang into motion. Immediately everyone fell silent and watched, held by the now-electric atmosphere. The dance seemed so fast and so nimble. I forgot to maintain any pretence of clearing up cups. But, within moments, the spell was broken. The dancers, who had been so confident, had fluffed their steps and were standing, confused, turning towards the band. The ballroom floor seemed larger; the dancers significantly smaller. They returned to their starting positions again.

The nerves had got to everyone. I sensed I should make myself invisible again. I returned to collecting the empties and followed Matt off the studio floor.

‘Wow, wow, WOW!’ I whispered, as soon as I thought we’d be out of earshot. ‘I can’t believe how different it looks in real life! I wonder how the judges find anything to criticise half the time, but now it suddenly all makes sense. You can see everything, every breath, every wisp of hair …’

Matt chuckled. ‘Come on, Superfan,’ he said. There was a pause while both of us heard Chloe calling us on the talkback system.

‘Could you head back to the office please? We need you to collect the guest lists for tonight, thanks.’ Chloe’s voice sounded no warmer. I felt my nerves returning as the temporary shimmer of life on the dance floor quickly faded. As we headed towards the office, we passed a group of professional dancers congregated around a doorway, chatting. They looked anxious and surviving on exhilaration alone. I realised that however tired I was, they must have been up for hours longer than me, doing physical exercise, and the hardest part of their working day was still hours away. The thought made me want to yawn.

In the production office Chloe was printing out lists and spreadsheets with various colour-coded columns on them. It looked like an admin minefield and I sensed it was coming my way. I must have looked horrified because Matt said, ‘Don’t worry Amanda, it’s only paper. We are going to be The Door Police for a while, with the power to allow people into the magical world of Strictly.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t put it like that,’ replied Chloe. ‘But I’m afraid I will need you on various doors at various points this evening. Here’s the list. The different colour codes correspond to the seating areas and the status of the guests. Obviously the celeb partners are in the front row, so we can get shots of them …’

‘Heh heh, especially the ones who were competitors last year,’ interrupted Matt. My celeb gossip database immediately whirred into action as I quickly tried to work out who he was referring to. Chloe raised an eyebrow. There was a shadow of a smirk on her face. Perhaps she had a sense of humour lurking in there after all.

‘… anywaaaaay. Amanda, to clarify. Each of the audience members is on a different colour-coded list. They will be given a wristband corresponding to that list on arrival. This way we can avoid sneaky last-minute seat shuffling. The friends, family and key celebs are seated where we can get shots of them, but everyone else is divided pretty equally. It is simply too disruptive to have people swapping around at the last minute.’

She handed me the sheets of A4 and six bags, each filled with different coloured wristbands. She looked me straight in the eye.

‘Do not let anyone change their seats. These seats are allocated. Okay?’

‘Yes, Chloe,’ I replied. I felt as if I was being told off. I wasn’t though … was I?

The first show was due to start that Friday evening, so before we were due to take up our door duties, Matt and I headed to the canteen for a late lunch. It had felt a bit like a high school canteen to me all week, but now that I had a clearer idea of what all of our roles were, I wasn’t sure where to sit. While we were queuing for our pies, pushing our trays along the three metal rungs towards the till, I noticed a pretty girl about my age. She had dark hair, pale skin and red lips. A cross between Snow White and a fifties cigarette girl, she was one of the most put-together people I had ever seen. Her lips had a perfect Cupid’s bow shape, which although created with make-up, didn’t make it any less cute. Her hair was cut in a dark shoulder-length bob with a blunt fringe that looked as if it had been cut with a razor. It was shiny in a way that finally made me understand my northern granny’s expression about looking ‘like boot polish’. She was wearing a black dress with a wide belt, which perfectly accentuated her curvy pin-up girl figure. It seemed fair to assume that she was a celebrity from a show I wasn’t familiar with. A kids’ TV presenter, perhaps? She gave us a hesitant smile as she approached, picking up a tray for herself.

‘Hi there,’ she said in a soft Scottish accent. ‘Do you mind if I interrupt?’

‘Of course not, go ahead,’ replied Matt. He was sooo giving her the once over.

‘Thanks.’

‘How can we help?’ I asked. Matt now had his back to me and it was clear that if I wanted to be included in this conversation, I was going to have to include myself.

‘Well, I just wanted to interrupt.’

I frowned slightly.

‘What I mean is, I didn’t have a specific question. I’m new here, only just started, and it seemed to me that you were having the most fun in the canteen, so I thought I’d ask if I could join in.’

I had to admire her honesty. And she was right: Matt and I had just been having a right laugh. Who didn’t enjoy piling mashed potato onto someone’s plate with a massive catering spoon and then shaping it into a Close Encounters-style mountain? Who could not enjoy that? No one I’d call a friend, that’s for sure.

‘Well then, welcome to our people,’ said Matt. He put his hands together and gave a little bow. ‘You are one of the family.’

‘Yeay, thank you! I really didn’t want to eat with the rest of the make-up team. I’ve been with them all day, I feel like I need someone, a bit, well, a bit … more relaxed.’

I laughed.

‘That’s us! Irresponsible, underpaid and too silly to know any better …’

‘Excellent news,’ she replied, with the kind of crinkly nosed smile that made me think she could be a lot of fun. ‘I’m Sally. From make-up. Yes, I do a lot of the fake tans.’.

‘In that case I declare you the hardest working woman on Strictly,’ I said, picking up a Wispa from the display at the till, showing it to the cashier and putting it onto her tray. ‘Let me get you this.’

We spent the meal chatting and joking about the rest of the team, and our experiences with the dancers and celebrities so far. Who we’d seen in action, whose costumes looked exciting and who were our personal favourite dancers. It was the first time all week that I had felt as if I was even vaguely among people like myself. Despite Sally’s glossy looks, she had a really warm manner, and I knew that she was the kind of girl I could be great friends with. All too soon the meal was over and Matt and I went to the office to collect our coats before beginning our shift outside on Wood Lane.

We left via the back entrance to the building, passing by the doughnut-shaped courtyard made famous by so many comedies and Blue Peter broadcasts. On the other side of the security gate a queue was already forming, even though it was hours until the show began. Matt took one entrance and I took the other. I had queued once to see a panel show recorded here. This time I was on the other side of the velvet rope, and instead of wearing sparkles, I was wearing discreet black clothes like the rest of the production team. It felt like a uniform, a badge to show that I was one of them. I shivered with delight.

Ninety minutes later, I was shivering for different reasons entirely. The thin Converse trainers I had been wearing all week, specifically to fit in, now seemed like the footwear decision of a maniac. It was freezing, and I desperately wished I’d worn boots instead. I dug my hands deep into the pockets of my Parka, raised my shoulders and did my best to keep smiling.

Luckily the excitement among those queuing was enough to keep my spirits high. Beneath everyone’s winter coats I could see flashes of sparkly shoes, satin dresses and jewel-coloured cuffs. Several of the men were holding umbrellas over their wives, gallantly trying to protect their hair and make-up. Each couple looked as if they were on a once-in-a-lifetime date, which in a way they were. And apart from the love-struck there were also some mums and daughters, gossiping and observing every little thing. As I checked people’s names off the list they smiled and chatted with me, and I helped them on with their coloured wrist-bands, making the same joke again and again about whether it would go with their evening wear.

Then, just as I was starting to fade, Matt came up to me and shoved one of his hands deep into my pocket. What the hell was he up to?

‘For you,’ he said, before darting back to his post. I dug into my pocket till my fingers reached a woolly ball and then realised what he’d done: he had just given me his gloves.

‘Thanks, mate!’ I called over to him. ‘What a star!’ He waved me away casually.

An hour later, all of the guests were safely inside the building and we had guided them to their seats without too much hassle. As Chloe had warned, a couple of gentlemen determined to show their wives a dream night out tried their hand at changing to a seat in the front row, but Matt and the team were there and we managed to keep everyone happy and correctly seated. I don’t know how I concentrated though, as I was constantly doing crazy double takes every time I saw faces I recognised.

Finally, once every guest was seated, and a few final checks were made, I saw on one of the monitors in the green room that the warm-up comedian had taken to the stage. Matt appeared at the doorway, doing ridiculous jazz hands.

‘It’s SHOW TIME!’

‘Yeay!’

‘Come on.’ He took me by my sleeve and led me up the stairs to the studio floor. Slowly, silently, I followed him onto the set and to the position opposite the staircase where various crew members were assembled. We settled down just as the audience burst into applause to welcome the judges. The men were looking dapper as usual and Alesha was stunning in a black sequined gown with her hair pulled back and up in an elaborate do. I was fascinated to see them interacting with each other, shuffling around and settling down for the performances. Eventually, I started to get calls on the talkback system starting down the countdown before air time. Eventually the theme music began and I knew that the show was now broadcasting live.

I felt a lump in my throat, remembering all of the evenings I had spent watching Strictly over the years – curled up with my flatmates at university, the show an inevitable part of the build-up to Christmas with my family. And now I was here, a part of it.

The celebrities and their dance partners started to appear from the top of the staircase opposite us. Like nervous peacocks, they strutted out, both more glamorous and more human than they ever seemed on television. And so many of them! I had forgotten how many there were at the beginning – I definitely hadn’t seen this many of them at rehearsal that morning.

As the theme music reached its climax the dancers had finally descended the glittering staircase on either side, and were now all lined up in front of me like the most bedazzling chess set in the world. They were all smiling, but I could almost see the adrenaline coming off them. Each, in their own way, was revealing his or her nerves. My eyes scanned them from left to right, comparing heights, hair-styles and outfits. As I reached the final couple, I gasped out loud. Because there, next to soap star Kelly Bracken, was Lars, the new Swedish dancer. But he wasn’t just Lars, he was the man from the puddle, the gorgeous man I had bumped into outside the studios, the owner of the Giant Man Chest. It was him. And he must have seen me gasp. Because, at that very moment, as the camera turned away, he winked at me.


Chapter 3

Lars’s wink completely threw me, and the show passed in something of a blur. The lights, the movement, the live music and applause all conspired to make me feel as if I were actually part of the performance itself. Even though I was exhausted, by the time the final score began, I was utterly bewitched by the entire thing.

Despite it all, I did try to observe the technical aspects of putting the show together. It all seemed so slick; everyone in their positions seemed so calm. The preceding days were frantic and seemed as if they’d never happened. The only person who seemed to be expending any real energy once the show went live was Anthony, who was operating the Steadicam. I had never done any work experience on a show that used a Steadicam, and while I knew that they were considered the coolest of the cool, I had no real idea why. Until I saw Anthony in action.

The camera itself was not attached to anything … except Anthony. All of the other cameras in the studio were either on wheels, handheld or suspended from cranes or the ceiling. The Steadicam was strapped to Anthony by means of a giant harness. It was an arresting sight: Anthony, the dad of a giant metal and plastic camera-baby, which he was carrying in a custom-made sling.

But what I wasn’t prepared for was the way Anthony leapt onto the dance floor with the dancers during the dance. He had a small set of camera cards pinned to his right, which showed him when his shots were needed. I knew all this already. But the first time that he just stepped up and over the footlights and onto the floor, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Then, following the dance, he joined in with the swoops and leaps, only a few feet away from the dancers. What I was so used to seeing as a dance for two, I now realised was actually something even more incredible: a dance for three, one of whom was in a pair of rather sweaty looking khaki shorts and some sturdy, black walking shoes. Again and again, Anthony leapt across the stage getting the most majestic shots. Each time, once he had captured what he needed, he leapt off the ballroom floor just as nimbly and vanished into the audience. By the time the final dance ended, he was sweating buckets and all of his cue cards had been ripped away.

Fascinating though this was – and I cannot make my admiration for Anthony clear enough – my heart was hammering in my chest throughout at the thought of Lars. Obviously, I watched him studiously for the entire time he was onstage. Did he have a nervous twitch? Or just a wonky eye? Could he really have been winking at me? I wasn’t convinced, and told myself it must have been the result of staring too hard at the lighting gallery. Nevertheless, I was the living embodiment of swoon. I was swoonalicious.

As Bruce and Tess waved goodbye for the first time in the series, and the theme music exploded onto the set once more, the audience burst into delirious applause, and the crew all started to high five and hug each other. I felt numb, tingling from head to foot. This was actually happening to me.

Matt tugged my sleeve. ‘To the bar?’

‘Oh yes, I’d love to!’ Matt had no idea how much I was looking forward to heading to the bar with the cast and crew: a chance to check out Lars, and see if he really had recognised me.

‘Awesome. Let’s get Sally on the way.’

Ooh, does he have a little crush? I thought to myself, as we climbed a draughty staircase up to the make-up area. We picked up Sally, who was looking resplendent in a black 1950s-style shirt dress and a bright red belt, and headed towards the bar. We could hear the music from the other side of the fire doors, and as Matt held them open to let us in, I felt as if we were walking into the greatest party in London that Friday night. The crew, the production team, the celebrities, the dancers and all their friends and family were in there unwinding, gossiping and giggling. I even spotted Chloe chatting to some of the lighting team, looking the most relaxed I had seen her all week.

‘Ladies,’ said Matt. ‘May I help you to a glass of the BBC’s finest white wine? Or will you be having something else?’

‘Do you know what, Matt? I think I’d bloody love a voddie and tonic. Do you want some cash?’ Sally said.

‘No, don’t worry.’ He put his hand out and rested it reassuringly on the top of her arm.

‘I’m all about the wine tonight. Thank you!’ I said. Matt headed to the bar and I turned to Sally.

‘I am not kidding when I say that that was one of the most amazing things I have ever seen in my life. Have you ever seen a live show before?’

‘No, it bloody knocked my socks off too. They looked so great, didn’t they? I can’t wait to see how they all progress. And isn’t it fascinating how you can see how really, really nervous they all look. The telly gives everyone a bit of a confidence sheen, I think.’

‘You’re so right. You really feel you’re living it when you can see it from the studio floor.’

‘Yeah! Now I know why my brother is always going on about live venues and gigs. He’s always banging on about festivals, and I always sit there thinking, ‘Why bother? I prefer watching them from the comfort of my sofa and not from a muddy field.’

‘I can’t think of enough ways to agree with you about the festivals.’

‘But now, hearing the live band, seeing the dancers live … I can see where he’s coming from. There’s nothing like hearing the beat of the music actually rattling your ribcage, is there?’

From over Sally’s shoulder I saw Matt sliding his wallet into his back pocket and picking up the three glasses. He navigated his way through the hubbub towards us. Then, as he approached, I saw another face turn to mine: Lars. He had had his back to me, and I had not realised it was him. The person he’d been talking to, who I now realised was a fan, was walking away, flushed. Left alone, Lars had turned to face me and smiled again. He stepped forward towards me. As he did, he stood in Matt’s path, knocking the drinks he had precariously balanced between his two hands. The contents splashed over the edges of the glasses and onto Matt’s sleeve.

‘Oh my goodness, I am so sorry,’ he said to Matt. He seemed very charming. His English was perfect, slightly formal in tone.

‘No worries, pal,’ replied Matt. ‘No harm done.’

‘I was just coming over to say hallo to my old friend, Cinderella,’ continued Lars. I felt the heat rush to my cheeks, and dug my nails into the palms of my hands. I couldn’t speak, and just lifted a hand to my chest.

‘Yes, you,’ he said to me. ‘I rescued you from that puddle the other day. Everything okay?’

Sally had been watching the entire interaction, enthralled, her head flicking back and forth between Lars and me like a spectator at a tennis match. I opened my mouth to reply but she interrupted, sticking her hand out.

‘Lars, it’s Sally. From make-up. I took care of Kelly earlier, but I think it’s my colleague Jeanne who looks after you. Lovely to meet you, I am a good friend of Amanda’s, a bosom buddy really. And this is Matt.’

‘Well, hallo everyone. It is lovely to meet you. It is good to see that Cinderella is in such good hands.’

‘Her name is Amanda,’ said Matt, as he handed me my drink.

‘Thank you,’ I mouthed at him, still too startled to talk properly myself. I smiled at him. I smiled at Sally. And then I smiled at Lars.

‘Well, this is just … lovely!’ I yelped. My voice sounded weird and high pitched, betraying the intense awkwardness of the situation. I couldn’t work out what was making me feel so uncomfortable. Perhaps the fact that Lars had winked at me earlier, or the way that he was being so solicitous, as if we were old friends. Or perhaps it was Matt, who was looking ever so slightly disgruntled.

‘Yes, it was lovely to see you, Amanda. Do take care, and I look forward to working with you.’ After he said this he looped his arm around my waist and leant in. He kissed me once on each cheek, pulling me in so close that I could feel the heat emanating from his soft, worn T-shirt. I swear that chest was wider than the bed I slept in at university. He gave the others a small wave, muttering ‘a pleasure’ and wandered off into the crowd.

I let out a huge sigh. Sally was standing facing me, her hands on her hips and her head tilted.

‘What. The. HELL. Wasthatallabout?’

‘Nothing, it was nothing, we haven’t even really met.’

‘And yet he calls you Cinderella?’ Matt was as incredulous as Sally, although his tone was little sharper.

‘I saw him for the first time the other day. I fell in a puddle on Wood Lane, and he helped me up. And cleaned my shoe and stuff.’

Sally grabbed my arm, gripping it like a baby with a rattle.

‘And now he calls you Cinderella! That is the hottest thing I have ever heard! Hotter than the sun!’

‘Yeah, fairytales. Hot stuff.’ Matt took a huge swig from his pint. His sourness was suddenly very unappealing.

‘I knooooow. I can’t believe he recognised me!’ I leant in to Sally, whispering so that no one else could hear us.

‘I’m not kidding, Amanda, it’s been really nice knowing you this week, and I’m sure you are a really lovely person. But you owe it to all of womankind to do your best here. He is severely hot, you saw the reception he got out there. I want to know more. And you’re the woman for the job. M’kay thanks!’

‘Yeah, like that’s totally going to happen. Yup, definitely.’ I shook my head at Sally. Was the woman insane?

‘Some men are just born charming, and he’s one of them,’ said Matt. ‘It doesn’t mean he’s a good person. Or that it’s a good idea for you to leap into bed with him. Where’s your self respect, woman?’

‘Matt, did you not hear what I just said? It is perfectly obvious that nothing is going to happen. Can we all just stop talking about this now?’

‘You can stop talking about it. But it doesn’t mean I have to stop thinking about it.’ Sally gave me a sailor’s wink and picked up her coat. ‘Well guys, thank you for the drink, but I think it’s about time I hit the road myself. Hackney is not going to come to me before bedtime.’

We gathered our stuff and headed to the tube. Sally leapt straight on the Central Line, whereas Matt and I had to wait for different branches of the Circle Line, heading in different directions. For two minutes after an awkward hug goodbye, we sat on opposite platforms, both pretending to fiddle with our phones, until my train finally came. I looked over my shoulder to wave at him as the train pulled away but he was engrossed in his messages, and didn’t look up.

Matt’s odd tone in the bar made me stop and think for a moment, but it wasn’t enough to upset me properly. The evening had been too momentous for that. From the lights to the costumes and the live audience to Lars himself, I felt as if I were finally living the kind of life I had dreamt of last summer when I had been waitressing at Sergio’s. Yes, I was exhausted, but I finally felt as if I were a part of something. And that something was special. I might never make it as a professional dancer, as my eight-year-old self had always wanted, but I could still be a part of this world, which was magical enough for me.

As I turned my key in the door, I resolved to tell Natalie what an evening it had been, and make sure that she knew how much I appreciated all she had done for me. But when I entered the flat, the lights were all off. They were obviously in bed. I took my Converses off at the door, mindful not to mess up the carpet again and headed to the spare bedroom. I hung my coat up on the back of the door and turned to the bed. Aaaaaah, bed, I thought to myself.

But there was a small note there, and next to it were my hair straighteners.

Amanda, you left these on. They have marked the carpet. I think we need to chat about this in the morning.

My heart immediately sank. I clearly remembered turning the hair straighteners on before I got into the shower that morning, so pleased that they’d be ready to use as soon as I needed them. But I had, of course, become distracted by my phone and then the decision about what to wear and had ended up running behind schedule. Which meant I never used them at all. They must have been on for hours, and even the safety catch would not have worked until after the carpet had been marked.

The Strictly bubble had burst. No matter what I did, I was always going to be Natalie’s irresponsible little sister. I wiped my face, and headed to the shower, where I stood under the hot water for ages, slumped at the thought of such a silly mistake ruining an otherwise dreamy day. As I pulled the covers up under my chin and curled into a tiny ball, I realised there was only one thing for it: I would have to find my own flat, and fast. For the first time in my life, I really needed to not be Natalie’s little sister. I needed to be me.


Chapter 4

It was one of those mornings: you’re only half awake and you roll over, cocooned and cosy, burrowing deeper into the duvet without a care in the world. And then you remember. Something had upset you the night before, only you’re not quite awake enough yet to remember what. You hug the duvet a little tighter, scrunch your eyes shut, and then … yup, it hits you.

I lay there, pretending to myself that I was still asleep, and trying to fool my body into believing that it was still totally relaxed. But it was having none of my tricks and the minute I remembered the snippy tone of the note from Natalie, I felt the nerves knotting in my stomach once again. I curled into as tight a ball as possible, clamped my eyes shut, and tried to block it all out. I needed to concoct a plan that would enable me to be out from under Natalie’s feet for as much of the weekend as I could.

But my older sister is hard to ignore. As I lay there trying to still the anxieties whizzing around in my head, I heard her slippered feet shuffle into the kitchen and her starting to unload the dishwasher. The clanking of the crockery and glasses being put away was followed by the low rumble of the kettle, and finally, the repeated clinks of the teaspoon against mugs as she made tea.

I suppose I knew that she wasn’t actually trying to wake me up. I knew that I had been awake already. But every clink and clank sounded like Morse code. ‘You need to find your own place’, ‘How much more do we have to do for you?’, ‘When are you going to learn to be a proper adult like the rest of us?’ I sighed and rolled over. I could ignore it no more. I needed a plan. And if I had learned one thing that week, it was that plans need coffee. So I pulled on a pair of tracksuit bottoms, and a battered old hoodie that was a favourite for slouching around in, and silently left the flat within five minutes.

Natalie and Lloyd lived in South London near a huge common, which in the crisp, bright autumn air, looked like something from an idealised mobile phone advertisement. There were joggers with matching running kits and spry ponytails which bounced with every step, young dads peering into prams at their unfamiliar newborns, and couples holding hands as they walked through the leaves. All this, and the sun was twinkling down on the lot of them. It was enough to make me want to vomit.

Who were all of these people? How come they were all so self-possessed? Why did they seem to hold the keys to some kind of secret universe of adulthood? What did they know that I didn’t, which let them behave like extras from a Scandinavian lifestyle magazine? By the time I had negotiated my way past the brightly coloured buggies outside the cute deli on the other side of the common I was filled with despair, bordering on rage. It was as if last night at Strictly had never happened. The sense of possibility, camaraderie, glamour – it all seemed further away than ever before.

I took my coffee and a pain au chocolat, and sat on a bench on the edge of the common, surveying what now looked like a parade of autumnal happiness. I felt ridiculous to have finally got my dream job only to feel consumed by loneliness and hopelessness. It was so indulgent. What was wrong with me? I took my mobile phone out of my pocket and called the one person I knew could shake me out of this mood: my godmother, Jen.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi Jen, it’s Amanda.’

‘Well hello, darling. How are you, city girl? I’m surprised you have time for me!’

Jen sounded thrilled to hear from me, but then she always does. She’s been a friend of my parents since they were newlyweds and has known me since the day I was born. While I have never doubted that my mum wants the best for me, I always feel that Jen – mum’s best friend – wants the best for me, as well as the most fun possible. She’s less inclined to worry about the formalities and more likely to cut to the gossip. As well as being a proper laugh, she is someone I trust implicitly. When I was a teenager she never failed to let me know that I could talk to her about anything I didn’t want to discuss with Mum, and that it would remain in her confidence. I’ve rarely taken her up on it but knowing that she is there has made all the difference. She is everything you could want in a godmother.

‘So … were you at the show last night?’

‘Of course, it’s my JOB now, don’t you know?’

‘Well, la di daa, I am so sorry. Would you do me the honour of letting me know how it is all going? Is it everything you dreamed of? And … are they?’

‘Are who?’

‘The dancers! You can’t kid a kidder, darling. Are they gorgeous? Do you get to talk to them?’

‘I suppose so. A bit. Obviously we can’t just butt in and pretend we’re their best mates, just like in any job. But, you know, we’re working together so we have to talk to each other about some stuff. And then of course there’s the bar …’

‘I knew it! You’re partying with them! Please tell me you’ve met Lars. Is he gorgeous? And what about that cutie Jared?’

‘Yes, I’ve met both of them. And yes, they’re both gorgeous. I’ve probably talked to Lars more than Jared though. He even knows my name …’

‘I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it. I am going to have to get a glass of water.’ I heard the kitchen tap running.

‘Well, I say he knows my name, but he also knows my shoe size.’

Much to Jen’s enormous pleasure, I told her the story of Lars, the shoe and the puddle. She was hooting with delight, and before I knew it, I was doubled up with laughter on that park bench. The Fifteen-minutes-ago Me would have walked by and hated the Now Me.

‘So you’re having a ball? It’s everything you hoped for?’

‘Yes, it’s amazing.’

‘And how’s London treating you? Have you got used to city living?’

‘Well, I’m still at Natalie and Lloyd’s …’

‘Ah. Do I sense a problem?’

‘Yeah, a bit.’

‘You were never going to be able to stay there forever.’

‘No, I know, it’s not that. I don’t think they’re about to sling me onto the street or anything, it’s just that I think I have annoyed Natalie with my messiness in the flat. And now everything I try to do just makes it worse. I want to find a place of my own now, but I don’t want to seem ungrateful, like I’m running away, either.’

‘You’ve got to take control, sweetie. Tell her the truth. She only wants you to be happy.’

‘She wants me to be happy and she wants her carpets to be clean.’

‘Of course she does, she worked hard for that house. But she’s not crazy, she’s just house-proud. And she’s also used to her own space. I know dealing with this kind of life crap isn’t as much fun as the foxtrot, but you’ve got to get a grip of it before it gets a grip of you.’

‘I know. I just feel as if everyone else knows what they’re doing so much more than I do.’

‘Oh honey,’ Jen roared with laughter. ‘No one knows what they’re doing in life, especially the adults. We just get better at hiding that. Now then, you’re going to start looking for your own place, and you’re going to go back and give Natalie a big hug. Can we get back to hearing about that gorgeous Lars now please?’

I drained the last of my coffee, told her about Lars’s mesmerizingly low-cut training T-shirts and headed back to Natalie’s, stopping to get two extra croissants on the way. As ever, Jen had made me feel as if the world were there for the taking, if only I bothered to take it.

When I got back to the flat it was silent and Natalie and Lloyd’s door was closed, so I put the croissants on a plate and left it on the kitchen table with a note.

I’m so sorry about the hair straighteners. I promise to pay for any damage. Please let me organise dinner tonight?

Then I ran a bath, complete with a generous splash of the bath oil that I had been given for Christmas the previous year. There had never been any point in using it when I was still living at home, as mum’s potions and products would always have drowned out the delicate rose scent, and if truth be told, I had been saving it for a romantic rendezvous. But, inspired by Jen’s words about grabbing life by the scruff of its neck, I decided Saturday morning was as good a time to indulge as any, and moments later I was luxuriating in Natalie’s lovely bathroom, flicking through a magazine and listening to the radio. When I finally got out, I made sure I cleaned up, immaculately wiping the mirrors and neatly folding the bathmat over the side of the tub. I was so fastidious I could have committed a murder in there and Natalie would never have known.

I was wandering back to the spare room when I caught sight of Lloyd in the kitchen, munching on one of the croissants and reading my note.

‘Hey, Lil Sis,’ he said, with a wink. I loved Lloyd, but I hated it when he called me that. It made me feel like a toddler, hair in bunches, who needed help with my laces.

‘Hey,’ I replied, clutching my toiletries to my chest, trying not to get any drips on the kitchen floor as I stood in the doorway.

‘So you’re taking us out to dinner tonight then?’

Yikes. I hadn’t actually meant that I was going to take them for dinner. There was no way I could afford that. I had intended the offer to be one of a curry or pizza in front of the telly. But what could I do now? Refuse to take them to dinner, even though I was living in their house, rent-free?

I chewed the inside of my mouth, then replied. ‘It’s the least I can do. What do you reckon?’

‘Well, I’m up for it. Never say no to food. Natalie’s just getting up, let’s ask her in a minute.’

What I really wanted was to try and get Natalie on her own, to explain the misunderstanding. But my hopes were dashed when she appeared behind my shoulder.

‘What are you asking me?’ She kissed the side of my head and manoeuvred around me into the kitchen. Lloyd passed her the note. She picked up the other croissant, clearly assuming he had bought it, and read. Seconds later she looked up.

‘Awww. Thanks, Chicken. That would be lovely. And listen, sorry about my note last night. I was just really tired, and in a bit of a crabby mood. I should probably not have left it out like that, and just spoken to you this morning.’

She was being so sweet. I realised I might have got myself into a right state for no real reason. I hadn’t had my first pay cheque yet; I barely had enough money to pay for my tube fares all week, let alone for a meal for three in swanky South West London. But I knew there was no real way to get out of it, so I hugged Natalie and said ‘Great. Just let me know where’s good,’ and headed back to the spare bedroom.

I flopped onto the bed, wondering how I was going to negotiate this dinner without making everyone concerned feel worse. My phone buzzed on the duvet next to me: a text message. I picked it up and looked at the screen.

BABE! I am in town for the weekend. You around this afternoon?Text me up.xJ

It was Julia, one of my best mates from college. Probably the coolest friend I’ve ever had, she was currently in Milan doing a placement as part of her BA. She was one of the girls I had missed the most over the interminable Surrey Summer, and I was thrilled to hear from her.

How come you’re back? Where are you? Can’t wait to see you. xx

After pressing send I didn’t let go of the phone, hoping that Julia would get back to me as fast as I had to her. I was in luck.

Coolio. Soho? An hour? Jx See you there. xx

Leaving my dinner apprehensions behind, half an hour later I was on the tube, whizzing up to Tottenham Court Road, my head swimming with all of the gossip I had. We met in an Italian coffee shop on Dean Street that we had been going to ever since I began visiting her during my university holidays. Julia, who had grown up in London, seemed to have known about places like this all of her life. I was sure that her grandmother was one of the original generation of post-war coffee-shop girls who had spent her evenings necking expressos and dancing the jive with men in immaculate suits. We ordered sandwiches and perched on stools at the shiny 1950s laminated bar.

‘What the hell are you doing in town then?’

‘Massive family party tomorrow – I had it written down in my diary in the wrong month, or I would have told you that I was going to be around slightly sooner. My mum called on Wednesday to check what flight I was on and I realised my mistake. Luckily I had bought tickets for the right weekend, but just written it down wrong or I’d be in serious trouble.’

This was the kind of scrape that Julia got into – and out of – the whole time: I always took dance classes while I was at school, and then at university I carried it on with the local Salsa society, but Julia would just turn up every few weeks to keep me company or to check out any new dancers I’d been telling her about. She never paid any attention to what the instructor was telling us, but managed to fit in with the rest of the class without her somewhat unorthodox technique drawing too much attention to the fact that she barely turned up. In fact, the only reason that she ever seemed to catch the instructor’s eye was because she would walk in looking so dramatic, and be so charming that most of the men in the room would be bewitched by her. If I could have had an ounce of her nonchalant confidence when I was not in Salsa classes, I do not think I would have been so devoted to dancing for so long. For Julia, the dancing barely mattered: she brought her personality to the class. For me, I needed the dancing to bring out my personality.

So I didn’t dwell on her sudden appearance, having seen her come up against such scrapes before. Instead, we got down to the serious business of two months’ worth of news. By the time we had got through our sandwiches, a massive bottle of San Pellegrino, and four coffees, we had just about covered her love life with an Italian boy who was clearly never going to be a long-term prospect for as long as he continued to live in his mum’s beautiful Milanese apartment, her applications for internships at Italian fashion houses, my total lack of any romantic action over the summer, and my new job at Strictly.

‘That is such fantastic news,’ said Julia, fiddling with the spoon in her coffee cup. ‘I’m so glad you’re working on a proper show now. And the dancing! I bet you can’t believe it. All those salsa nights at Uni … Have you actually shown anyone that you can dance yet? I bet you haven’t even mentioned it.’

My sheepish expression told her all she wanted to know. She was right. I had told no one about the number of dance classes I had taken over the years, or my passion for actually dancing myself. It seemed so crushingly embarrassing to admit to it when surrounded by the very best in the industry. I didn’t mind my colleagues knowing how passionate I was about watching dance, and about the show. If anything I thought that could only be a bonus in the eyes of my bosses, even if it did make me feel like a bit of a dance-nerd around people like Matt. But to admit to being a dancer myself? I’d rather die. It would put me in the position of being such a wannabe, such an opportunist. I didn’t want a single person to think that I was only doing the job as part of a dastardly plan to become a dancer. I was serious about my job, and about television. Dance was a passion. I was clear about the two, but I did not want anyone else to become muddled.

‘I knew it! Why don’t you say something? I bet one of the professionals would take you for a quick spin.’ She sniggered. ‘A dance … you know what I mean.’

I giggled too, and then opened my mouth to tell her about Lars, but thought better of it. Julia was so feisty, she would build it up into something it wasn’t, and I didn’t need that kind of pressure. But I was too late; she had spotted me.

‘What?’

I waved my hand to try and brush the conversation away.

‘Oh come on, what? Tell me …’

‘It’s nothing.’ ‘It’s not nothing or you would just say. It’s clearly something, and that’s why you have gone all coy.’

I rubbed my face with my hands, trying to diffuse the situation by not looking at her. She sighed.

‘Oh, now there’s only one thing for it.’ She looked up at the guy behind the bar, catching his eye instantly. ‘Could we get two glasses of Prosecco please?’

I sighed, and opened my mouth to protest but I was immediately ‘shushed’. As the waiter put two glasses down in front of us, but before he’d had a chance to fill them, I suddenly blurted out, ‘One of the dancers is completely gorgeous and I have chatted to him a bit and he seems quite flirty, but honestly I don’t want you to get your hopes up because nothing will happen, and I can totally tell that Matt thinks he’s a bit of an idiot too.’ Finally, I exhaled.

‘Woah, woah, woah!’ The barman stopped pouring, immediately. ‘No, not you Lorenzo! Amanda, you. Calm down. Breathe. I only wanted a bit of gossip. Please, rewind. Who’s the dancer and who is this Matt and why do you care so much about his opinion anyway?’

The barman moved to pour the second glass, trying very, very hard to pretend he wasn’t listening. I could see his smirk, and suddenly felt self-conscious discussing the show in public.

‘The less said about Lars the better—’

‘So he’s called Lars?’

‘Yes, but I don’t think we should talk about this here …’ I rolled my eyes towards the barman to try and convey my anxiety to Julia.

‘Oh Lorenzo won’t mind, will he?’ The barman winked at us.

‘I ’ear too mach in this jab to remember eet all, the gassip.’

‘Seriously, forget you heard anything,’ I replied.

‘Okay, okay, let’s forget about Mr L. Who’s this Matt then? Is he any better?’

‘Oh Matt, he’s lovely.’ I broke into a grin. ‘He’s a real honey. He’s totally helped me this first week, really shown me how things are run, been someone I can talk to, that sort of thing.’

‘Sounds cute.’

‘Yeah, he’s great.’ I paused.

‘Ri-ight …’

‘Oh no, nothing like that. Nothing at all. He’s not boyfriend material.’

‘You’re sure? How do you know?’

‘Yes, of course, we just work together. And anyway – he’s not a dancer. Seriously, it’s not even that he’s not a professional dancer. He doesn’t even dance at weddings. I think he’s one of those guys who even at their most drunk can only manage a little bit of swaying.’

‘Just checking. You seemed to go a little misty-eyed just then.’ I felt the heat rising in my cheeks, as I began to blush.

‘It’s probably the booze,’ I said swiftly, raising my glass to hers. But I knew Julia wasn’t going to press the issue, as she knew how much going out with a guy who could dance meant to me. Obviously I knew that a girl like me couldn’t demand a Jared Murillo kind of guy, but as dancing was so important to me I had always maintained that I couldn’t get serious with someone who was not relaxed on a dance floor. My romantic ambitions weren’t as high as those couples who performed scenes from Dirty Dancing at their weddings, but I was not going to compromise on a bloke who wouldn’t even dance with me at someone else’s wedding. I didn’t want to be the girl dancing with her friends while her boyfriend nursed a bottle of beer and talked about the football on the sidelines. I wanted someone who would be relaxed, hold me properly and then offer to dance with one of the doddering aunties. For me, that was charm, confidence and chivalry.

‘Yes, probably is the booze then.’ Did I see Julia wink at Lorenzo at that point, or was I imagining it? Either way, I didn’t want to encourage them so I looked down at my watch. It was much later than I had realised.

‘Oh my goodness, I’ve got to get back. I’m taking Natalie and Lloyd out for dinner tonight and we haven’t even decided where we’re going.’

‘How come?’

‘Urgh, I’m staying with them. It’s my final chunk of news.’

‘Oh, urgh. Natalie’s an absolute doll, I can’t say enough good things about her, but those two are loved UP. I can imagine being in their palace of perfection could get to a girl after a while.’

I remembered what Julia’s room had been like at university – the messiest I had ever seen. Clothes, plates, books heaped everywhere. It was a wonder to us all that someone as glamorous as her could regularly appear from a room like that. If anyone would understand the pressure of living with Natalie and Lloyd, it would be her.

‘It’s just not really working out.’ I sipped the rest of my drink, and reached for the hook beneath the bar with my bag on it. ‘No real reason, just two sisters under one roof. I think Natalie wants her own space and I—’

‘Don’t have anywhere else to go?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Yes, you do.’

‘Er, no I don’t.’

‘What I mean is, I might be able to help.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Yes, my friend, Allegra. Remember her? She did Italian with me? She’s half Italian, now living in London?’

‘Yeah, I think so.’ I really hoped that she wasn’t talking about the girl I thought she was.

‘Well, she’s living in Shepherd’s Bush now, just moved in. Only she was supposed to be moving in with an Italian friend who decided at the last minute that she was too homesick and wanted to go back. They’d signed the contracts and everything, so now Allegra’s frantically trying to find a flatmate. I think the other girl said she’d cover a month or so but after that Allegra’s on her own.’

‘What’s the catch?’

‘There is no catch! Stop being so doom-laden. Maybe, just maybe, it might work out?’

‘You know what, maybe you’re right.’ I smiled and picked up the bill that Lorenzo had placed in front of us. I noticed that the two proseccos were not listed.

‘Excuse me, Loren—’

‘Shsh!’ he said, with a wink. ‘You take-a care, ladies.’

‘That was so lovely of him,’ I said, looping my arm through Julia’s as we walked out onto the street, having settled up.

‘He’s a doll,’ she said. ‘He’s been keeping an eye on me since I was fifteen.’

‘Sweet. I could do with someone like that. Although Matt has been lovely this week.’

‘He sounds great.’ Julia gave me a nudge in the ribs. I giggled.

‘You’re evil.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m amazing.’

‘I know. It’s been such a treat to see you.’ We were now approaching the tube, where I knew we’d be heading in different directions.

‘Listen, I’m going to call Allegra now. Promise you’ll get in touch with her?’

‘Of course. If I can’t be your flatmate any more, I might as well take the next best thing.’

‘Ha! I miss you, babe, even in Milan.’

‘Yeah right …’

‘It’s true. Keep in touch. Let me know how it pans out. All of it.’

‘Oh you’ll hear about it all.’

‘Yeay!’ We hugged, and descended into the tube on separate escalators.

As my carriage rumbled under the river, I sat fiddling with the strap of my bag, wondering if there really was a chance that this flatmate master plan could work out.

The answer was waiting for me when I left the tube station and felt my phone buzz in my pocket.

Already spoken to Allegra. If you’re up for it, text her asap. She’s seeing people this week for the room.

I replied immediately, then sent a quick text to the number that Julia had attached. By the time I reached home I was already feeling positive about where ‘home’ might soon be.

Natalie was snuggled up on the sofa when I walked in, and Lloyd was nowhere to be seen. Natalie looked over her shoulder at me as I stood by the doorway to the sitting room.

‘Hey sis,’ said Natalie.

‘Hey sis,’ I replied.

‘All good?’

‘Yeah, I went to see Julia, she was unexpectedly in town.’

‘Lovely stuff. She well?’

‘Yeah, great.’ I drew breath. I was dreading what I was going to say next. ‘Listen, do you guys know where you want to go for dinner tonight?’

I had decided on the tube that I had to be up front about this, especially if I was going to start paying rent sooner rather than later. It was part of my new ‘Grabbing Life By the Scruff of the Neck’ plan.

‘No, Lloyd’s out at football. I haven’t had a chance to really talk to him about it yet.’ I sat on the arm of the sofa, and Natalie turned down the volume on the TV, sensing I was embarking on a proper chat.

‘Okay, because … well—’

‘… it’s okay, I know what you’re—’

And with that, the clatter of Lloyd’s football boots on the tiles outside announced his arrival home. Like the properly trained husband that he is, he swung the front door open, while staying on the step to take the muddy boots off.

‘Evening ladies!’ he yelled into the doorway.

‘Hiya!’ replied Natalie.

Moments later he was in the sitting room, drenched with sweat, his offending boots on the doorstep.

‘Everyone okay? I’m starving! I’m going to grab a shower and a beer from the fridge. Anyone else?’

‘No thanks!’ said Natalie and I, simultaneously.

Perfect, I thought to myself, now I can speak to Nats alone. But at that moment her mobile rang and she answered it straight away.

‘Hellooooo!’ she shrieked, sounding thrilled to hear from whoever it was. I sighed and took Lloyd’s football boots to the back door, resigned to having to have my financial confession in front of both of them.

When Lloyd had finished in the shower he headed for the fridge and got out a bottle of beer, before wandering back to the sitting room in his dressing gown, rubbing his hair with the huge bath sheet that was now around his neck.

‘I tell you what ladies, and I don’t mean to be rude …’

‘What?’ said Natalie, with a slight frown. I sat up in the armchair I was in, ready to scurry away if a domestic was brewing.

‘I’m absolutely shattered. I’m not sure I’m up to going out. How about we get a DVD and a takeaway?’

‘That’s what I was thinking!’ replied Natalie, before I had a chance to say anything. ‘But only if you want to, ‘Manda. I know you wanted to take us out.’

I wasn’t sure if it was a set up, an act of extraordinary sensitivity and generosity on their part, or just a happy coincidence. Either way, I concentrated on trying to keep my enormous relief to myself.

‘Oh, that’s fine,’ I said. ‘But I’ll get it, yeah?’

‘Only if you’re sure, but it would still be a real treat,’ said Natalie.

‘Thai? Anyone for Thai? Oooh, I could do with some noodles.’ Lloyd was already up and fishing around in the drawer with the takeaway menus in, holding batteries and spare keys and odd pens. ‘Any objections?’

Moments later we were huddled around the menus, planning our feast. It was agreed that Lloyd and I would collect the food, while Natalie went down the road to pick up a DVD. Lloyd seemed no less excited about the food an hour later when we were in the car. He pulled into a side road near the fancy Thai takeaway place on the common, and as I looked at the bars and restaurants rammed with people out for a big night, I felt consumed by relief at the way the evening had ended up. It wasn’t just that I had got away with keeping things vaguely under budget, I was also really looking forward to hanging out with Natalie and Lloyd after a week of avoiding them, especially as I had yet to break the potential good news about the Shepherd’s Bush flat.





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