A Step In Time (7 page)

Vicky grinned.

‘The dancers are all out there,’ she said, pointing to the studio exit. ‘They can’t wait to find out which of you they’ve got to train.’

‘I pity whoever gets me,’ I muttered and the rugby player laughed again. He really was a lovely chap.

‘Right then,’ Melissa said. ‘Let’s get cracking.’

She and Vicky explained that we’d meet our partners now and do all the publicity shots and so on. Then later in the week we’d film the launch show, and be introduced all over again, pretending it was the first time we’d met. Then, we’d have a month or so of rehearsals with our partner before the first live dance show. They made it sound so much fun and so straightforward that I suddenly felt really excited about this new challenge I was taking on.

I watched and clapped as one by one the dancers filed in and met their partner. And then they called my name. I went up to the front and said hello to Melissa and Vicky.

‘Excited?’ Melissa asked.

I nodded.

‘You should be,’ Vicky said. ‘Your partner is gorgeous.’

Melissa gripped my arm.

‘Amy,’ she said. ‘Meet Patrick Walker.’

The doors opened and in came my partner, twirling and dancing his way towards me. He was definitely gorgeous – there was no doubt about that. But I’d met him already.

He stopped in front of me and our eyes met.

‘You,’ he said.

It was Surfer Dude.

Chapter Eleven

We looked at each other for a beat too long then Surfer Dude – Patrick – picked me up and spun me round, just like all the other male dancers had done to their partners.

‘Great to meet you, Amy,’ he said as he put me down. ‘We’re going to have a ball.’

‘A glitter ball,’ I said fake-brightly. God, this was excruciating. Most people managed to have drunken one-night stands without being forced to spend the next ten weeks with the object of their ill-advised affection.

‘Do you guys know each other?’ Melissa asked. She’d obviously seen the glimmer of recognition when we were introduced.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ said Patrick.

‘We were introduced very briefly at a party last week,’ I lied. ‘Though I didn’t know Patrick was a dancer.’

‘And I didn’t know Amy was the famous Amy Lavender,’ Patrick said, flashing his broad grin at Melissa and giving me an accusatory glance over his shoulder.

‘How funny,’ said Melissa. ‘Enjoy getting to know each other better!’

But I was too embarrassed to enjoy anything.

The photo shoot was fine, actually. I’d done enough of those things over the years to be able to switch it on at will. I smiled, posed, spun and shimmied my way through all my solo photos, then escaped to the canteen for a (horrible) coffee so I didn’t have to watch Patrick do his. He was really very good looking and seeing the muscles working in his back – which was barely covered by a sheer shirt – was very off-putting.

To keep my mind on the task ahead, I hid in the loo and took a close-up selfie of half of my made-up face, eye closed and false eyelashes brushing my tanned cheek. I sat on the closed toilet seat and added many filters so it was as flattering a pic as possible. Then, knowing I was risking my place on the show when we weren’t really supposed to tell anyone we were competing until the press were told tomorrow, I sent it to Matty.

‘Guess what I’m doing?’ I typed.

There was no reply. But I didn’t expect him to reply immediately. I had no idea what had possessed me to message him. After all, the last time I’d seen him he’d been throwing my belongings onto the street. All I can think is I was feeling unsettled and guilty about my night with Surfer Dude – Patrick – and I wasn’t thinking straight. Plus, I had to admit that I missed Matty. We’d been together a long time and it was weird being alone. I wondered if he was missing me, too. It was doubtful considering there were always girls throwing themselves at him when we were together – he was bound to have even more now we’d split so publicly and I was sure he was making the most of it

I tossed my hair back. All the more reason to make a success of this ridiculous dancing show, I thought. I would throw myself into it, learn to cha-cha like a pro. I’d learn to live without Matty, Babs would be thrilled and my career would surely be back on track.

Filled with new-found enthusiasm and vigour for the task in hand, I wandered down the corridor towards the room where I knew Patrick was. He was sitting on the floor of the room, beating out a rhythm on his long outstretched legs, and a camera crew was recording what he was saying. About me.

‘I’d read all the stories, of course,’ he was saying. ‘And I’d heard people say she was a bit shallow – you know like some of these reality TV stars can be.’

I bristled. I was an actress. Who happened to have appeared in occasional episodes of my boyfriend’s fly-on-the-wall TV show. I was NOT a reality TV star.

‘So is Amy how you expected?’ one of the camera crew said. ‘What are your first impressions?’

‘She’s beautiful, of course,’ Patrick said. ‘But she also seems fun and genuine and a good laugh.’

Well, that was nice. Quickly I planned what I’d say when they asked me the same question about Patrick – welcoming, friendly, friendly.

But Patrick was still talking.

‘I really like her,’ he said, a funny look on his face. ‘And that kind of surprises me.’

Oh man, he wasn’t falling for me, was he? My whole life men had been harbouring crushes on me. I wasn’t stupid enough to think they really wanted to be with me. I knew it was my pretty face they were interested in – and even then it was just the face I showed the world. Very few people had ever seen the real me – the one who slobbed out in leggings and a vest top with greasy hair and no make-up; the one who watched
Pitch Perfect
then went back to the beginning and watched it all over again straightaway. The one who loved to laugh but had a bit of a temper. Phil knew the real Amy, of course. We’d been friends since we were fourteen and I couldn’t ever fool him. But even Matty had seen a carefully edited version – until I let my mask slip that night in the club.

Patrick having a crush on me could be awkward, I thought. I should probably put him straight as soon as I could. I really just wanted time to myself to get my head together and learn to be me again, instead of being part of Brand Matty and Amy. I was too bruised, too broken, to risk another relationship right now. Plus I’d totally had it with high-profile romances and being fodder for the showbiz gossip columnists. I didn’t want any saucy stories damaging my hopes of getting more acting work in the future.

But for now I had to get on with this photo shoot so I plastered a huge smile on my face and pretended I’d just walked into the room.

‘Hi guys,’ I said. ‘Are we ready for the next lot of photos?’

Patrick stood up.

‘Amy,’ he said. ‘Great. Let’s get cracking.’

Doing our photo shoot together was strange. We weren’t dancing, obviously – our rehearsals hadn’t started yet. Instead, we just posed as though we were. I quite enjoyed looking like I knew what I was doing, even when I clearly didn’t have a clue. But what I didn’t enjoy was being so close to Patrick. The feel of his tight muscles under my hands, the smell of his skin and the rasp of his stubble against my face brought back lots of memories of the night we’d spent together. Memories that were really too nice …

‘Stop it, Amy,’ I told myself sternly, smiling at the camera as Patrick lifted me up in his strong (stop it), ripped (seriously, enough) arms. ‘No more stories for the
PostOnline
.’

When we had a break I wandered over to get some water and checked my phone to see if Matty had replied to the photo I sent, but there was nothing. I scrolled through the pictures, intending to resend it.

Patrick followed me.

‘Who are you messaging with such a serious look on your face?’ he asked.

‘My boyfriend,’ I said without thinking. Patrick’s smile slipped just a little bit.

‘You’re back together?’ he said.

‘Oh, well, no,’ I said. ‘I just thought …’ Feeling silly to have been ‘caught’ messaging the man who cheated on me, I pressed ‘send’ firmly, then looked up at Patrick from under my eyelashes, the way I made Betsy do when she was apologising for something. Like murdering the pub’s sleazy landlord or sleeping with her best friend’s bloke. Anyway, I channelled my inner Betsy and focused on Patrick.

‘Listen,’ I said softly. ‘I had a really great time with you the other night. But things are complicated with me right now and I don’t want this …’ – I waved my arm wildly, taking in me, Patrick, the camera crew, everything – ‘… this thing to get in the way. We’re professionals, right? We can do this.’

For a second Patrick gave me a look like I’d kicked his puppy. Then he straightened up and gave me a smile. The kind of smile I recognised because I’d used it myself so often. A fake it until you make it smile.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘You’re not really my type anyway.’

I narrowed my eyes.

‘What is your type?’

‘Oh, you know. Bit more wholesome. Less concerned with appearance and more about what’s inside.’

I stared at him. I hadn’t really expected a character assassination.

‘More real,’ Patrick said. ‘More like a human being.’

My phone beeped with a message and I leapt on it, grateful for the distraction.

It was from Matty. Finally. My heart thumping, I swiped to open the message.

‘Who is this?’ it said.

I burst into tears.

Chapter Twelve

Cora

1945

I tugged at the top button of my uniform skirt. No. There was no way that was going to do up. I’d have to pin it. Trying not to think about what my swelling shape meant, I rooted around in my sewing box for some safety pins and secured my skirt. Thankfully my jacket was long enough to cover it for now, but I couldn’t keep doing this. Plus my costumes had very little give in them and the seams on one outfit were already stretched to their maximum.

I threw myself onto the narrow bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to muster up the energy to go to rehearsal. I glanced at the clock on the wall. I still had half an hour, thank goodness. I could lie here for a few minutes longer …

‘Cora, wake up.’ Audrey shook me gently by the shoulder. ‘Rehearsal in five minutes.’

I blinked wearily. Audrey was sitting on my bed, while Fat Joan – the other occupant of our cramped attic bedroom in the boarding house that was our home for now – leaned against the door. She wasn’t fat, Joan. In fact she looked like a film star, with long blonde hair and deep brown eyes. Now she narrowed those eyes at me.

‘Have you been sick again?’ she said. ‘I heard you this morning.’

I sat up.

‘I think it was last night’s tea,’ I said. ‘Corned beef has never agreed with me.’

Fat Joan tossed her hair over her shoulder, looking decidedly lacking in concern for my innards.

‘Want me to tell Henry that you’re ill?’ she said.

I shook my head.

‘No, I feel better now,’ I said. ‘Could you just say I’ll be there in five minutes and apologise?’

Languidly Joan straightened up.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Make sure it is only five minutes.’

I forced a smile.

‘I’ll be right there,’ I said.

As soon as Joan’s footsteps died away, Audrey jumped off the bed and locked the door; then she turned on me.

‘What is going on?’ she hissed. ‘Are you ill?’

‘No,’ I said slowly. ‘Not ill.’

Audrey looked at me, realisation growing in her grey eyes.

‘Oh, Cora,’ she said. ‘Oh, Cora.’

‘Do not breathe a word of this to anyone,’ I said.

‘Have you told Donnie?’

I swung my legs off the bed and stood up.

‘No,’ I said in horror. ‘Of course not. I can’t tell him in a letter – Dear Donnie, I’m pregnant, Yours, Cora.’

Audrey shrugged.

‘Can’t imagine it’ll be less of shock to hear it out loud,’ she pointed out.

‘I’ll tell him when he comes to London,’ I said. ‘He’ll be here soon.’

As planned, Donnie’s division was off to France and they had some time in London before they left for the coast. We’d planned to meet up as soon as we could and Donnie was still talking about getting married if we could arrange it.

Audrey came over to me and helped me arrange my hat on my head.

‘So what are you going to do?’

I closed my eyes.

‘I have no idea,’ I admitted. ‘I’m not going to Africa with the rest of you, that’s for sure.’

A glimmer of a smile crossed Audrey’s face.

‘Well, that will please your mum,’ she said.

She was right. My mum had been desperate to keep me at home in Worthing, dancing in the end-of-the-pier show and teaching toddlers. But I’d been equally desperate to join up, to see the world, and as soon as I’d turned eighteen I’d been off. So far we’d only done the rounds of the bases in Britain with a short trip over the sea to France, but we were scheduled to leave for North Africa in the summer, when our time in London was done. I had been giddily excited at the prospect – until I met Donnie. And now this.

‘How far along are you?’ Audrey said, staring at my stomach.

‘Don’t,’ I said, nudging her. ‘Don’t make it obvious.’

‘How far?’ she said.

‘About three months, I think,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure exactly.’

Audrey looped her arm through mine.

‘I can ask around,’ she said. ‘See if anyone knows anyone.’

‘What do you mean?’ I said, naively.

‘You know,’ she said. Audrey was from London and since we’d been in her hometown her accent had become more pronounced. ‘My sister knows someone in Camberwell. I can find out how much it is?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘No. Not yet.’

‘Have you tried a bath and gin?’ she said. ‘I’ve heard that does the trick.’

I grimaced with the frustration of trying to make her understand.

‘No,’ I said again. ‘It might be all right. Donnie might …’

Audrey gave me a pitying look.

‘He might still want to marry you?’ she said. ‘Yeah, and I might be queen of bloody England.’

‘We’ve got plans,’ I said, thinking of our trip across America. ‘He’s going to take me to Hollywood.’