Shimmer. Amanda Roberts
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