A Step In Time (8 page)

‘What, with a great big bump or a babe in your arms? I don’t think so, sweetheart.’

Her face softened as tears filled my eyes.

‘Look,’ she said, putting her arm round me. ‘Donnie’s a lovely bloke but that’s all he is at the end of the day, isn’t it? A bloke. Look at you. You’re gorgeous. Nice hair, good tits, great legs. You’re young. You’re lively. You’re a catch. No wonder he’s full of talk now. But will he still be so interested when you’re fat, and your legs are puffy and you’ve got a nipper hanging off your breast?’

She sucked her lips.

‘Unlikely, I’d say.’

‘Audrey,’ I said, appalled. ‘Not all men are like your dad, you know? Donnie loves me whatever I look like. He wants to marry me.’

Audrey squeezed me tighter.

‘It’s not their fault,’ she said. ‘It’s the way they’re made – to only see pretty faces and long legs. And it’s just a shame we’re left to pick up the pieces. I’ll write to my sister, see what she says. It’s best to be prepared.’

I felt overwhelmed with exhaustion. I’d been terrified when I realised I was expecting, but I’d assumed everything would be fine. I’d tell Donnie, and we’d just get married a bit ahead of when we’d planned. I’d stay in London, or go to the country with the baby – anywhere as long as it wasn’t going home to Worthing and my mother – until the war ended, then we’d go to America. But now Audrey had made me wonder if I was just being naive. Maybe she was right. Perhaps Donnie would run a mile when he heard.

I slumped against Audrey, tearful and tired.

‘I really don’t feel very well,’ I said. ‘I feel awful, in fact. I think I need to go back to bed. Can you tell Henry that I’m poorly?’

Audrey nodded.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Have a rest and you’ll feel better tomorrow.’

Like a mum – not my mum, but how I imagined mothers to be – she helped me take my uniform off and slipped my nightie over my head. Then she tucked me into bed and pulled the curtains closed.

‘Rest up,’ she whispered.

I cried myself to sleep.

Chapter Thirteen

It was safe to say that
Strictly Stars Dancing
was a nightmare. An absolute, complete bloody nightmare. We were two weeks into the month of training we had before the live shows began and I was hating every single moment.

After that first day when we did the photo shoots, the sparkly costumes were put away and the hard graft began. Patrick and I trained in a gym in a basement in Shoreditch. Which is a surprisingly long way from Clapham. After three days of tutting, whingeing cab drivers, I admitted defeat. No one was going to recognise me in my training gear anyway, so I did the whole hair-tucked-into-a-baseball-cap, sunglasses, jogging-bottoms thing and got the tube in every day.

Each morning I’d get off the tube and go into the little Italian cafe next to the gym where I’d buy two coffees – one for me, one for Patrick – and some pastries.

Patrick never drank his coffee and he never ate the pastries. He never thanked me for either In fact, he barely spoke to me at all unless it was to say things like: ‘No, the other foot.’ Or: ‘Left, left, LEFT.’

Because, as I suspected, I was a terrible dancer. I mean, really, really terrible. If I was meant to be going left, I’d go right. If Patrick said quicker, I went slower. If he said up, I went down. I was awful. Phil had been right when he said I loved dancing in clubs and at weddings – I did. But I found that without the comforting support of a lot of alcohol I couldn’t let myself go enough to be able to do it.

I got the impression Patrick thought I wasn’t trying. But I was. Mostly. It was just really annoying not to get it straightaway and sometimes I thought it was easier to be a bit silly rather than try – and fail – again. Sometimes I complained that I didn’t want to mess my hair up, or get too sweaty. I didn’t mean it but I said it anyway. It was like now I knew Patrick thought I was shallow, fake and only concerned with my looks, that was how I had become.

And to be brutally honest, I felt like he wasn’t trying either. He kept me at arm’s length – literally – like he didn’t want to touch me too often, too closely, or for too long. Despite our night together it was obvious that we just didn’t click.

I’d had that sort of thing before, on
Turpin Road
. Sometimes you’d start a scene with someone new and every line would feel laboured and unnatural. I’d had it the opposite way round, too, where things just fell into place. On
Turpin Road
, though, I had Tim watching and listening and swooping in to swap scenes round or change storylines that weren’t working. On
Strictly Stars Dancing
I had to struggle on regardless.

The other dark cloud over my head was the fact that I’d not heard anything more from Matty. He’d clearly deleted my number from his phone, just like he’d deleted my clothes from his flat, and me from his life. It was hard not to feel hurt and humiliated. I’d heard he wasn’t seeing Kayleigh, the reality TV star, any more, but still he didn’t call.

Even when the contestants on this year’s
Strictly Stars Dancing
were announced and my photo was all over the papers and showbiz mags he didn’t call. I spent ages looking at my promo shots, and comparing them to the selfie I’d sent Matty. It was fairly obvious it was me, even though you couldn’t see my full face. I had to accept that he knew the message was from me, and he’d just chosen not to respond. Deep down I knew it was for the best – he’d cheated on me and broken my heart and I knew I was better off without him. But I couldn’t help thinking that was another reason my failure at dancing was so annoying. I wanted to be good so he’d watch me sashaying down those steps on the first week’s show and be overwhelmed with longing and regret. Sadly, it didn’t look like I was even going to be able to walk down the steps without going arse over tit, let alone sashay anywhere.

So I had all this angst going on in my head when Patrick and me fell out – big time.

We’d been working on our cha-cha. It was the first dance we were doing and according to Patrick it wasn’t too hard. But when I turned away from him instead of towards him for the twentieth time that day, then lost my footing, stumbled and fell, Patrick didn’t help me up. Instead he sighed heavily and looked at his watch.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said, my voice laden with sarcasm. ‘Do you have somewhere you’d rather be?’

Patrick looked down at me as I sat on the floor rubbing my ankle.

‘Frankly,’ he said, ‘I’d rather be anywhere than here right now.’

That stung a bit, I had to be honest.

‘Yeah? Well, it’s not much fun for me either.’

‘You’re not even trying, Amy,’ Patrick said. ‘You can’t even remember the simplest steps.’

‘You’re not helping me,’ I said, furious that he was blaming me for something that was clearly the fault of both of us. ‘You won’t come near me, you won’t talk to me – this is horrible.’

Patrick rubbed his nose. Then he gave a resigned shrug.

‘You’re right,’ he said. I felt a small surge of triumph that I’d made him see things my way.

‘It is horrible.’

Oh.

That just made me even angrier. I stood up, wincing a bit at my sore ankle and picked up my bag.

‘I’m sorry that I’m not a natural dancer and I’m sorry I’m finding this so hard,’ I said, adopting the voice Betsy used when she was sorting out fights in the Prince Albert. ‘I’m going home now and hopefully we can start afresh in the morning.’

Calmly, I walked to the door but just as I stepped through I heard Patrick mutter: ‘If I’m here tomorrow it’ll be a damn miracle.’

Annoyed that he’d had the last word, I whirled round, flicked him the Vs – childish, I know – then stomped off, slamming the studio door behind me.

I got a cab all the way back to Clapham – I couldn’t be bothered with the tube today. It was bad enough going back to that flat, miles away from all my friends, with hardly any belongings. I hadn’t even unpacked the few possessions I did have. There didn’t seem to be any point. I hadn’t met the old woman who lived upstairs either – even though I was supposed to be looking out for her. I’d heard the front door opening and closing a few times and I’d heard voices but I’d never seen her. I supposed I should have gone up to introduce myself but that seemed like accepting my fate, so I hadn’t.

It was a lovely day. My bare front room had double doors at one end, leading out to a paved yard. The sun was streaming in and it was stuffy in the room so I threw the doors open and then threw myself on the sofa and stared at the blank walls.

How dare Patrick say I wasn’t trying? How dare he say it was all my fault when he was acting so weird? I’d show him.

Chapter Fourteen

After a while I got bored lying there feeling sorry for myself, so I went in search of food. I poured myself a glass of wine, then I dug around in the fridge and I found some olives and cheese. I couldn’t find any crackers in the cupboard but I did find half a bag of crisps. That would do. I drained my glass then poured myself another one and wandered back into the lounge.

‘Right,’ I said. Still holding my wine, I pushed the sofa back against the wall with my bum and rolled up the rug, so the wooden floor was bare. Then I scrolled through Spotify until I found the Bruno Mars track that we were dancing our cha-cha to.

‘I’m going to show you, Patrick,’ I said out loud. ‘I’m going to be the best damn cha-cha dancer
Strictly Stars Dancing
has ever seen.’

I drained my glass again and topped it up. Then I pressed play on the laptop and started trying to cha-cha.

Bruno started singing about her eyes. I swayed slightly and stepped on the wrong foot.

‘Bollocks,’ I said. I took another gulp of wine and started again.

Bruno was singing about her hair now, but I was still on the wrong foot.

‘This is a nightmare,’ I said. ‘It’s a complete bloody nightmare.’

I should never have signed up for
Strictly Stars Dancing
. I should have said no when Babs phoned. I should have gone to America, or Australia. Actually, Australia wasn’t a bad idea – maybe Babs could get me an audition for one of their soaps? Sun, sea, sand – and the added bonus of knowing that my knickers hadn’t been seen by just about everyone I walked past in the street.

Then I thought about Patrick’s annoying face and thought about how shocked he’d be if I went in tomorrow knowing how to cha-cha. Maybe I’d stick it out for now.

I took another swig of my wine, dumped the glass on the side and restarted the song.

Bruno was back to her eyes again. I stepped on the wrong foot. Again.

‘Other leg,’ said a voice.

I span round in surprise and there, standing in the double doors that led outside, was an old woman. A really old woman. Possibly the oldest woman I’d ever seen in my whole life. She was wearing long white linen trousers, a pink wrap-around top, and sparkly ballet pumps, and her pure white hair was swept up in a bun.

‘Who the bloody hell are you?’ I squealed. I grabbed my phone and held it out like a weapon, which was slightly overdramatic given that my would-be assailant was a tiny old lady, but it had been a tough few weeks.

‘I am two seconds away from calling the police. What are you doing in my house?’

‘You’re in my house, my darling,’ she said in a throaty voice that sounded like late nights and smoky jazz clubs. ‘And you’re starting on the wrong leg.’

I looked down at my legs and then back at the old woman, realisation beginning to dawn.

‘Are you Mrs Devonshire?’ I said. ‘You’re Natasha’s grandma?’

‘Call me Cora,’ she said. She came into the room properly, walking in a very upright way, like a ballerina, despite her advanced years. She was really elegant and I could see where Natasha got her looks from.

Cora looked me up and down and I shifted uncomfortably under her stare, aware that I had mascara halfway down my face, my hair piled on top of my head like a pineapple and a hole in my leggings.

‘You must be Amy Lavender,’ she said.

I nodded, not sure what to say.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I muttered.

‘Start again,’ Cora said. ‘Left leg.’

I looked at her in confusion.

‘Shut your mouth, darling,’ she said. ‘Start again. Go on.’

Not wanting to argue, I restarted the song and began my cha-cha – on the left leg this time.

‘That’s right,’ Cora said encouragingly. ‘Carry on.’

She lowered herself onto the sofa and tilted her head.

‘Carry on.’

I stopped.

‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘I can’t do it.’

I burst into tears.

‘I can’t do it,’ I said. I looked at Mrs Devonshire – Cora – sitting on the sofa, a concerned look on her face and something inside me burst.

‘It’s all gone wrong,’ I wailed. I could hardly get my words out because I was crying so hard. ‘Matty doesn’t want to know, and Patrick hates me, and I can’t dance, and those girls took my dreeeeessss,’ I sobbed. ‘I can’t work out which leg I should start on, and I lost my job. I’ve been killed off.’

Cora blinked at me.

‘Killed off?’ she said.

‘Killed off,’ I said. ‘I’m in a soap. I was in a soap. But I punched a reality TV star and I lost my job and I can never go back. Ever.’

I dug a tissue out from the waistband of my leggings and blew my nose.

‘And Matty was cheating on me the whole time, and I sent him a picture of myself and he didn’t recognise meeeeee.’

It was like all the trauma of the last few weeks had been unleashed and all I could do was cry.

I sobbed and hiccupped and snorted for a few minutes, but eventually I managed to control my tears. I wiped my eyes with my very soggy tissue and was overwhelmed with a huge wave of embarrassment instead. I looked at Cora, who was still sitting on the sofa regarding me with a mixture of confusion, amusement and – to my relief – sympathy.

‘Oh, God,’ I said. ‘Oh, I am so sorry. I don’t know where that came from.’

Cora stood up, slightly shakily but still with more elegance than I could ever hope to have.

‘I came down to see if you could help me open a window,’ she said, a small smile on her lips. ‘But I think it’s you who could do with a hand.’