Читать книгу: «Shimmer»

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

Title Page

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

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.