A Step In Time (15 page)

I’d just got out of the shower and I perched on the edge of my bed, wrapped in a towel, and scrolled through the pics once more. My hair looked a bit scruffy again, I thought. I’d have to sort out my extensions before the first
Strictly Stars Dancing
live show, which was just – I shuddered with nerves – two weeks away now.

My phone beeped with a message from Phil.

‘Darling, just seen the pics. You okay?’ it said.

‘Fine,’ I typed back. ‘Just one of Babs’s crazy plans that went a bit wrong. Drinks later?’

‘No can do, sweetie,’ Phil replied. ‘Work thing.’

‘No worries,’ I wrote. ‘Would be fab to catch up soon.’

I scowled as I threw my phone on the bed. I missed Phil and wanted a night out with him to share my woes and tell him about Cora. He and I had been best friends since we met at Rising Stars when I was fourteen. I’d nagged and nagged and nagged my mum to send me there, and when I’d finally got an audition, and then a place starting in year ten, I was thrilled.

I’d been a bit of a troublemaker at my old school but, as soon as I got there, I thrived. Blossomed. Bloomed. Whatever. I loved it so much, I worked really hard and I got really good grades – and some of the other kids didn’t like that very much. But Phil did. He became my wingman and my protector, and I was his. He was still working out his sexuality back then and dabbling in set design, costume design and fashion, and I adored him from the very first time we met.

A year or so after I started at the school, when I was deep into studying for my GCSEs, loving every minute of my new life and planning to stay on at Rising Stars for A-levels, Mum met a new bloke. She’d had a few boyfriends over the years, but this one was different. Serious. And before too long they were making plans to move to Spain and run a bar. I was, obviously, devastated. I didn’t want to move abroad when I was finally getting to do what I wanted to do, but I couldn’t stay at home by myself, either. If I stayed on my own I’d have to get a job – and that meant leaving school instead of doing A-levels like I’d planned.

Phil came to the rescue – at least his parents did. Mum moved to Spain with Graeme and I went to live with Phil. Mum gave them a bit of money towards my keep, and I worked at the local theatre – selling ice creams and programmes – at weekends and in the evenings to support myself. I loved living there, and I loved Phil’s family. My own childhood had been a bit suffocating with it just being Mum and me. She’d wanted to be a West End star but getting pregnant with me when she was sixteen had stuffed up her plans – so she lived her ambitions through me instead. I didn’t mind because I loved acting, but there was a lot of pressure on me and I felt like sometimes I was all Mum lived for. So I was pleased when she met Graeme and then had my baby brother and sister. It diluted the intensity of her ambition a bit and took the spotlight off me. But that didn’t mean I hadn’t missed her when she moved to Spain, no matter how fractious our relationship. It’s hard enough being a teenage girl, without being one whose mum chose her new family over you.

Phil had stuck by me all these years but Bertie had come between us and I missed him now. I made up my mind to make more of an effort with boring Bert and get to know him. Perhaps if I could win him over, I could spend more time with Phil.I decided I’d invite them to my first live show. I could do with all the support I could get.

I looked at the photos again. God, I looked like such an idiot. This embarrassment had to make Babs think twice about me and Matty getting back together.

As though she could read my thoughts, Babs rang.

‘Isn’t it great?’ she said before I even said hello. I winced. Clearly she wasn’t about to abandon her plan.

‘That’s easy for you to say,’ I said. ‘You’re not the one facing public humiliation.’

‘Public adoration,’ Babs said. ‘The nation’s going to take you to their hearts. They’re all rooting for you – have you read the comments?’

‘I never read the comments,’ I said, having learned my lesson about that a long time ago. ‘If they’re rooting for me, I’m pretty sure they won’t want me to get back with Matty.’

‘Rubbish,’ Babs said. ‘Balls.’

‘Well, you know how it feels when you support a friend through a break-up and then they get back with the git who dumped them in the first place?’ I said, glancing at the clock. Shit, it was late; I had to get ready for dance rehearsal. I put Babs on loudspeaker, and started to pull on leggings and a baggy T-shirt.

‘You feel a bit put out, don’t you?’ I carried on. ‘That all your advice and support was for nothing? What if the public think that way?’

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. I paused in pulling on my trainers and grinned. Perhaps Babs was going to listen to my opinion for once.

‘Nah,’ she said. ‘You’re more valuable together. Big
Yay!
spread on your rekindled love. Bob’s your uncle. Money in the bank.’

I decided to change the subject. Maybe now she was pleased with me, I could tell her I wanted to be a serious actress without risking her wrath.

‘Babs?’ I said. ‘I wanted to talk about some auditions for me?’

‘Now is not the time to be worrying about auditions,’ she said sternly. ‘Concentrate on the bloody Rambo or whatever those dances are called, let me deal with your profile, and you’ll have your pick of auditions by the time you’re finished with
Strictly Stars Dancing
.’

‘Sure?’ I said. I felt uneasy about her advice, but, like I said, I was nervous about contradicting her at a time when I felt like I was on very thin ice, career-wise, and I thought – hoped – she knew what she was doing. My acting career may have taken a nosedive, but without Babs it would be over completely.

‘Trust me.’

I ended the call, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and headed out of the door. I was actually looking forward to rehearsing today because Cora had got involved. She’d offered Patrick a studio in the school where she’d told me she used to teach and where she seemed to be well respected. It was just round the corner from the house so she had promised to look in on our practice session later that day.

I bounced down the road, eager to get started, and found Patrick sitting on the wall outside a huge double-fronted Victorian villa, with a modern extension to the side and the back.

‘Is this it?’ I blinked. The sign said London Academy of Theatre and Dancing so I knew it was.

‘It is,’ Patrick said. ‘Pretty impressive, huh? There are more buildings, too – next door and on the other side of the road.’

‘Wow,’ I said, as we went inside the cool, tiled entrance hall and tried to locate the room we’d been given. ‘What a great place.’

It was actually the perfect place to practise. The new term hadn’t yet started so the building was quiet and still. The dance studio was at the back, in the new part of the school. It was well equipped and airy, with huge windows overlooking the common on one side, and three mirrored walls. It had great acoustics so our music sounded amazing, and best of all, I thought, the press had no idea we were here so I’d be left in peace. At least for a while.

We danced all morning and, apart from the odd grumble from Patrick, and the occasional – very small – tantrum from me when I got things wrong or didn’t understand what he was asking me to do, things went very well.

Cora called in after lunch. She sat on a chair and watched us dance the whole routine all the way through twice before she said anything at all. Then she told us we were on the right track, offered Patrick some advice on choreography, which he accepted graciously, corrected my arms, sorted out our hold, and generally improved our dance. I felt so comfortable with her there, as though she was on my side. She wanted me to succeed because she loved dancing and she wanted everyone else to love it, too. It wasn’t about the fame, or the applause, and it wasn’t about her – which made her very different from my fame-hungry mother, and – though I hated to admit it – from media-savvy Babs.

‘It really helps to have someone else involved,’ said Patrick. ‘I hope this doesn’t count as cheating.’

‘Course not,’ I said, guzzling water in a most unladylike way. ‘It’s just making the most of our assets.’

Chapter Twenty-Six

Cora was definitely an asset. We got into a routine of dancing on our own each morning, then going back to my flat for lunch, collecting Cora and going back to the studio with her in the afternoon for some of her advice and instruction. It worked brilliantly. I was learning what to do with my arms and legs, while Patrick, who’d never been on
Strictly Stars Dancing
before, was being taught how to teach. And Cora seemed to be getting younger by the day. She was full of energy – providing we didn’t let her demonstrate the steps too often.

Patrick adored her. So did I, of course, but Patrick really adored her.

‘She’s done so much,’ he said one morning as I put on my shoes before practice. ‘I’d love to hear all her stories.’

‘Well, from what she’s said, I guess she started teaching in the late fifties or early sixties,’ I said. ‘God, it must have been brilliant to have been in London then. She’d have only been a bit older then than I am now. I bet she was gorgeous and always ready for a party.’

Patrick frowned.

‘I wonder why she didn’t perform,’ he said. ‘She’s a wonderful dancer, even now. Why waste that talent on teaching?’

‘Like you’re wasting yours?’ I teased. ‘Maybe she didn’t like performing. Not everyone does.’

‘Weirdos,’ Patrick said with a grin.

I chuckled. We were definitely on the same page when it came to that.

‘My friend Phil hated it,’ I said. ‘He was a great actor, actually. But only when no one was watching. Put him on a stage and he dried. Mind blank. Hands sweaty. The works.’

Patrick shuddered.

‘Think of all the things he’s missing,’ he said. ‘The applause, the adoration …’

It was my time to shudder.

‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘I like TV when I get to do things over again if I make a mistake. The idea of dancing in front of real people is giving me goosebumps.’

Patrick pulled me to my feet and put his hands on my shoulders.

‘Amy,’ he said. ‘You are a great dancer. You know the cha-cha backwards and forwards. You’re picking up the American smooth like a pro. Your waltz is beautiful. Your samba is, well, not as disastrous as it once was …’

I punched him affectionately on his rock-hard bicep.

‘You are going to love every minute of the live show. I promise you.’

And you know what? He was right. Eventually.

The day before the first show we spent rehearsing in the TV studio. At last I felt like I was on familiar territory. Back in my comfort zone, as it were. We were just round the corner from where
Turpin Road
was filmed and I thought about popping in, then changed my mind. It was all about
Strictly Stars Dancing
now.

I confess, I perhaps showed off a bit. Chatting with some of the crew that I recognised, showing Patrick round the studio and explaining how it all worked. I felt full of confidence and that only increased when I got into the costume department and tried on my dress. It was a super-short fringed bright-blue number, with a keyhole back to show off my tattoo of a shooting star in between my shoulder blades. When I put it on, the wardrobe assistants all applauded. What can I say – that’s good for a girl’s ego. They explained what they’d do with my hair, gave me a spray tan, and flattered me some more by telling me how beautiful I was and how amazing I’d look on screen. It was a pretty fun morning. But pride always comes before a fall and today was no exception.

Eventually, glowing with fake-sun-kissed health, and feeling ever-so-slightly smug, I pulled my jogging bottoms and vest back on and went to find Patrick, who was rehearsing with the other professionals for their group dance.

I sat at the edge of the dance floor in utter, absolute dumbstruck awe. They were incredible. Even just marking out the steps in between run-throughs they were better dancers than I ever hoped I could be.

One of the other competitors – Martin, the rugby player – came and sat down next to me and glanced at my stricken face.

‘I know, right?’ he said. ‘Bloody brilliant.’

‘It is their job,’ I pointed out, trying to make myself feel better. ‘I bet they wouldn’t be so good at filming a scene, or swimming eight hundred metres.’

‘That’s true,’ he admitted. We watched in silence as the pros finished their dance and then drifted away from the dance floor. One of them, a beautiful, willowy Aussie blonde beckoned to Martin.

‘Time to practise with the band,’ she said.

He gave me a look of pure terror.

‘I’m up,’ he said.

‘Enjoy,’ I called, as Patrick threw himself down next to me and I offered him a bottle of water.

‘That was great,’ I whispered. ‘Really amazing.’

He gave me a killer smile.

‘Nothing like it,’ he said. ‘It’s just the best feeling. Now, shush and watch Martin and his partner Jessie. This is our chance to see where everyone else is at.’

Where everyone else was at was streets ahead of us. Martin was dancing the most beautiful waltz I’d ever seen. Even with him wearing tatty shorts and his beautiful partner in leggings that looked at odds with her ballroom shoes, it was beautiful.

‘She’s the world ballroom champion,’ Patrick whispered.

I blinked in astonishment.

‘She is?’ I said. ‘Wow. Are you a champion?’

Patrick made a modest face, then reeled off a list of achievements that made my head spin.

‘Blimey,’ I said. I was beginning to feel very out of my depth again.

‘Patrick,’ I said. ‘I’m scared.’

He took my hand and I gripped it tightly.

‘You’ll be fine,’ he said.

But actually I wasn’t.

Our rehearsal with the band was a mess. I forgot the steps first time round. The next time I went back to turning left instead of right, and starting on the wrong foot, too. I almost fell over when Patrick spun me round. You name it, I did it. But it was our last rehearsal and we had no time to put it right.

When I got home that evening, I threw all my stuff into the flat, then went straight upstairs to see Cora. Her back door was open so I let myself in and found her drinking tea in the lounge, with some classical music playing.