Kitabı oku: «A Step In Time»

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Readers Love Kerry Barrett

Also by Kerry Barrett

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6: Cora

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9: Cora

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12: Cora

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16: Cora

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23: Cora

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29: Cora

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39: Cora

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47: Cora

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Epilogue

Extract

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

Prologue

Afterwards I realized I was far, far drunker than I thought I was and that’s probably why it all went so badly wrong. But at the time, I thought it was a great idea. Matty, my boyfriend, was out at the opening of a new club and I wanted to see him. So I left the hotel where I was oohing and ahhhing over a fancy brand of hairbrush, jumped in a cab and headed to the West End to catch up with my man.

I posed for the photographers outside the club, giving them a beaming smile and a cheeky look over my shoulder so they captured the back of my mini dress, and then I trip-trapped down the stairs in my super-high heels to find Matty.

At first, I couldn’t see him. It was dark in the club and the flashing lights on the dance floor meant I took a while to get my bearings. But then I spotted his best mate, TJ, chatting to a girl I didn’t recognize, and Matty’s broad back in a tight white T-shirt, his head turned away from me, his tongue firmly stuck down another woman’s throat and his hands all over her bum.

People talk about a red mist descending, don’t they? I never knew what they meant until that moment. All I could think about was that some two-bit reality TV starlet was snogging my boyfriend. The man I loved. The man I intended to marry – just as soon as we agreed terms with Yay! magazine for the engagement photo shoot that would cover the cost of the huge rock I had my eye on.

Shrieking with rage, I launched myself at the girl. I took a fistful of her hair extensions in my hand and pulled her face away from Matty’s.

‘Get your lips off my man!’ I screamed. And then – and believe me, I’m not proud of this – I pulled my arm back and punched her. Right in the nose. I honestly didn’t know there would be so much blood.

Everything stopped. I couldn’t even hear the music any more. It was like the whole room was suddenly in slow motion.

‘AAAAAMMMMMYYY!’ Matty was yelling. ‘Whaaaat have you dooooonnnne?’ He had blood all over his white T-shirt.

The girl he’d been kissing was squealing as TJ shoved napkins at her, and out of the corner of my eye I could see other clubbers filming the whole sorry escapade on their phones.

Sounds bad, doesn’t it? Really bad. But that’s not even all of it.

Realizing I’d gone too far, I turned to leave. But like I said, I’d had quite a lot to drink at that hairbrush launch (honestly, it’s the only way to get through things like that – the free booze) and I was wearing really high heels.

As I spun round, my foot caught on the edge of the dance floor and suddenly I was face down in a puddle of pina colada with my super-short dress up round my hips and my Hello Kitty knickers on display.

Lying there, my cheek stinging from the pineapple juice, I watched two men compare photos on their phones’ screens and high-five each other. And then firm hands lifted me up.

‘Out!’ said one of the two bouncers who were either side of me. They were both twice as tall as me and seemingly three times as wide. They’d lifted me so high that my feet weren’t even touching the floor.

‘Don’t worry, I’m going,’ I muttered to the bouncer on my left. ‘I just feel a bit …’

And then I puked. All over his trousers.

Chapter 1

‘Get your lips off my man.’ My boss, Tim, threw the paper down on his desk and glared at me. ‘Amy’s meltdown. Full story continues on pages three, five, seven and nine.’

I glanced down at the photo on the front of the paper and winced as I saw the now familiar shot of me face down on the dance floor, bum in the air, as a blood-splattered Matty gazed on in horror.

‘Today’s news, tomorrow’s fish and chip paper,’ I said hopefully.

Tim rolled his eyes and turned his computer screen round so I could see it.

‘You are the only person who’s ever made every single thumbnail on the PostOnline’s Sidebar of Shame,’ he said. Sure enough, the column of pics down the side of his screen replayed each moment of that awful night in full technicolour glory. It was like a flipbook animation of the punch, the blood, the fall and the vomit.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I just really loved him, you know?’

Tim’s face softened.

‘I know you did, sweetheart.’

‘So what happens now?’ I asked, scared to hear the answer. Tim was the producer of Turpin Road. It was the biggest soap in Britain and I was arguably its biggest star – at least I liked to think so. I played Betsy, a damaged but sparky barmaid at the Prince Albert pub. I’d been on the show for three years and I absolutely loved it. And Tim loved me. I’d had some brilliant storylines and I was tipped as the next big thing. At least I had been, until I punched a reality TV star called Kayleigh and showed my knickers to the world.

I gave Tim a sheepish grin.

‘Suspension?’ I suggested. ‘I’ll go to my mum’s in Spain for a month, stay out of everyone’s way, and when I get back all this will have blown over and the tabloids will have a new victim. Just write me out for a bit.’

I was wearing a scarf round my neck – I’d hidden my face with it when I’d come into the studios earlier to avoid the paps waiting at the gate. Now I wrapped it round my head like Dolly, the actress who played my on-screen granny, and picked up the phone on Tim’s desk.

‘Oh, hello, Betsy,’ I said, in what I thought was a pretty good impression of Dolly’s shrill cockney voice. ‘Oh, your uncle’s broken his leg, has he? Of course you should stay and look after him. About a month, you say? We’ll miss you.’

I put the phone down again, pulled the scarf off my head and stared at Tim, waiting for the axe to fall.

I knew how these things worked. One of my co-stars had sent a photo of his willy to a fan via Snapchat, she’d screengrabbed it, shared it, and it was all over the internet about thirty seconds later. He’d been suspended for a while but he was back now and it was like nothing had happened. Tim adored me. The Turpin Road viewers adored Betsy. Surely my punishment would be similar?

Tim shook his head and my heart sank.

‘Longer?’ I whispered. ‘Two months?’

‘You assaulted her, Amy,’ Tim said. ‘You broke her nose.’

‘She was kissing Matty,’ I pointed out.

‘You were given a caution. You were lucky not to be charged.’

‘I wasn’t charged because her nose was full of coke and she didn’t want to make a fuss,’ I said.

Tim shrugged.

‘That’s as may be,’ he said. ‘But she doesn’t work for me and you do.’

He paused.

‘At least, you did.’

I went cold. I buried my face in my scarf and looked up at Tim in horror.

‘What are you saying?’

‘Don’t give me those puppy dog eyes Amy,’ Tim said. ‘You know what I’m saying.’

‘I’m out?’

He nodded.

‘My hands are tied, love,’ he said. ‘You punched someone, your pants are all over the PostOnline and there’s bound to be more. They’ll be after anything and everything. Ex-boyfriends, girls you fell out with at school, hairdressers you were rude to – it’s all fair game now.’

I closed my eyes.

‘Build them up, knock them down,’ I said.

‘Exactly,’ Tim said.

‘No,’ I said. ‘No. The viewers love Betsy. They love her and they love me.’

I jumped to my feet.

‘Look,’ I said, pointing to a framed photo of me gripping a gold statue that had pride of place on the office wall. ‘Do you think the show would have won this BAFTA without Betsy’s mental health problems?’

Tim shrugged.

I picked up a pile of magazines that were on his bookshelf and went through them one by one.

‘Amy wins big,’ I read, showing him a photo of me with an armload of statues at last year’s soap awards.

‘Steal Amy’s summer style.’ I opened Hot magazine at a fashion shoot I’d done and waved it at him.

‘Amy bares all?’ I fake-gasped, then giggled as I showed Tim the cover of Cosmo featuring a make-up-free me. ‘I was in make-up for an hour before that shoot.’

‘Don’t,’ Tim said. ‘Don’t do this.’

But I was on a roll. I picked up Yay!

‘Amy and Matty: Our plans for the future,’ I read. My voice shook as my bravado deserted me.

‘I’ve lost him, Tim,’ I said, hugging the magazine close. ‘Don’t make me lose this, too.’

‘No one’s bigger than the show,’ Tim said sadly. ‘But you’ll be okay. You’re very talented.’

‘I can come back, right?’ I said, still gripping my magazine. ‘Betsy will come back?’

Tim looked down at his feet.

‘We’re killing you off,’ he said.

I couldn’t speak.

‘It’s going to be huge,’ Tim carried on. ‘The biggest whodunnit since “who shot JR?”. People will be talking about it for years.’

I bit my lip. I didn’t want him to see me cry.

‘We’re rewriting some stuff,’ Tim said. ‘And we’ll film your last scenes this afternoon.’

I felt sick. This afternoon? How could my entire life change so fast? But I pasted on a smile, took a deep breath and stood up, throwing Yay! down on the desk.

‘Okay then,’ I said briskly. ‘Let me have the script A-sap, yes? Thanks for everything.’

I air-kissed him on both cheeks and legged it out of his office, down the corridor and into the safety of my dressing room. And then I started to cry.

Chapter 2

I never let myself cry for too long because I hated when my face got all puffy and my eyes swelled up. So after about ten minutes sobbing into the cushions on my dressing room sofa, I forced myself to get up and face the rest of the day. At Turpin Road we shared our dressing rooms, though I’d heard that on other soaps they got their own. I shared with two other actresses, which I quite liked, actually. They were nice enough and generally I enjoyed having someone to hang out with. Not today, though. Today I was relieved that they weren’t around and I had the place to myself so I could wallow in gloom alone.

I knew that I’d be called on set soon, so I dragged myself into the shower, trying to think about anything and everything apart from the fact that in the space of twenty-four hours I’d gone from being TV’s hottest star to a jobless, homeless, boyfriendless nobody. I stifled another sob as I shampooed my hair. Crying wouldn’t solve anything.

By the time I got out of the shower, I had thirteen missed calls – mostly from my agent, Babs, who’d been phoning me non-stop since the story went viral this morning – and a script pushed under my dressing room door. That was it then, the end of Betsy. I picked up the envelope – it was very thin, so obviously the script wasn’t very long. Poor Betsy. I took a deep breath before I opened the flap and scanned the text.

Interior: The Prince Albert

Betsy is clearing empty glasses after closing time. A noise makes her jump and turn.

BETSY: You! What are you doing here?

A hand reaches out and whacks Betsy on the head. She falls, motionless, to the ground.

Disgusted, I threw the papers to the floor. I’d given this show three years of my life, and this was how they repaid me? I was their biggest asset. In my head I heard Tim’s voice in my head saying: ‘No one is bigger than Turpin Road, Amy.’ I winced. What a way for him to prove his point.

Well, at least I didn’t have any lines to learn really. I could just lie on the sofa and feel sorry for myself until I got called on set.

I slumped down and had had my eyes closed for about thirty seconds when my phone rang. Listlessly I looked at the screen. Babs. Again. I supposed I couldn’t avoid her for ever, so I swiped the screen to answer.

‘Hi Babs.’

‘Bloody bollocking hell, Amy. What the flaming arse have you been doing?’

I held the phone away from my ear as she continued her foul-mouthed tirade. Babs swore like a trooper at the best of times, so when faced with a crisis – like now – she was really filthy. Eventually she calmed down a bit and I cautiously put the phone back to my ear. Her voice softened.

‘How are you?’ she said. ‘Are you holding up?’

I felt close to tears again.

‘Don’t be nice,’ I warned. ‘I am barely holding it together and if you’re nice I’ll crumble.’

‘Chin up,’ Babs said in her no-nonsense Glasgow tone. ‘I’ve got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?’

‘Bad,’ I said, bracing myself.

‘The catalogue’s pulled your fashion line,’ she said. I groaned. That was the end of my wardrobe full of free clothes then.

‘And the good news?’

‘Hold on, I’ve not finished the bad news yet,’ Babs said. ‘Your nail varnishes are on hold but it’s not looking good, and I’ve had a call asking you not to come to the premiere tonight.’

‘I’d forgotten all about it,’ I said. ‘And all my clothes are at Matty’s flat anyway.’

‘Where are you staying?’ Babs asked.

‘Phil’s,’ I said, sitting up on the couch and picking up a cushion to hug. ‘He’s looking after me, like always.’

‘Every girl needs a gay best friend, eh?’ said Babs.

I laughed without any real humour.

‘Yeah, well, it’s not quite so fabulous when your gay best friend’s boyfriend hates you,’ I said. ‘I can’t stay there for long.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘Not sure,’ I said. ‘Maybe to my mum’s for a while. Get some sun.’ And a whole lot of grief, though – I was trying not to think about that. Another thought struck me.

‘What’s the good news?’

‘What good news?’

‘You said there was good news’

‘Oh, yes,’ Babs said. ‘I just want you to know that this is not a disaster. I’ve got people out of worse scrapes than a small punch-up in a nightclub.’

I smiled despite myself.

‘It wasn’t really a small punch,’ I said. ‘More of a wallop.’

Babs made a dismissive sound.

‘And my knickers are all over the internet,’ I added, feeling another wave of self-pity.

‘Ach,’ said Babs. ‘It’s fine.’

‘It’s not fine,’ I said. ‘It’s awful. I really just want to go away for a while. Disappear for, like, six months, longer even. I can get off the bloody media roller coaster and lick my wounds, then come back revitalized and ready for a new challenge.’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Babs, I can’t do this,’ I wailed. ‘There are paps everywhere. And Tim’s right – they’re going to dig up every tiny bit of dirt they can. This story will go on and on and on. Unless I disappear and give them nothing.’

‘Oh, get over yourself,’ Babs said. ‘You’re not bloody Greta Garbo. If you disappear now, everyone will forget you. Your career will be over.’

‘Ouch,’ I said. ‘That’s harsh.’

‘It’s true,’ said Babs unsympathetically. ‘But don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.’

‘You have?’ I said, feeling marginally more cheerful.

‘We need to make the most of this interest in you. Use it to our advantage and take control.’

‘And how do we do that?’

‘Oh, it’s easy. We just need people to know how lovely you are,’ she said blithely. ‘Not Betsy – Amy. Your adoring public need to remember why they adored you in the first place.’

‘Right,’ I said, doubtfully. ‘I’m not sure that’s the most straightforward idea you’ve ever had. How would we do it, anyway?’

‘Reality TV, baby,’ she said.

I took the phone from my ear and scowled at it.

‘No,’ I said. ‘No.’

‘Don’t dismiss it, Amy,’ Babs said. ‘It can work wonders.’

‘And it can destroy careers,’ I said.

There was a pause.

‘From where I’m standing, it looks like you don’t have much of a career left to destroy,’ Babs said. ‘When you’ve hit rock bottom, Amy, the only way left is up.’

‘I’m not doing Big Brother,’ I said.

‘Fine.’

‘And only major channels.’

‘Fine.’

‘And I get to choose which show.’

There was silence.

‘Babs, I get to choose.’

‘Fine,’ she said, grudgingly.

‘And minimal publicity,’ I said. ‘I’ll do what I have to do, but not too much. I’ve got to get away from all this.’

Babs made a huffing sound.

‘You can’t hide away,’ she said.

I wished I could, but I knew she was right really. I bit my lip.

‘I’ve got contacts everywhere – I’m sure we can get you into something,’ Babs went on, oblivious to my misgivings ‘Have a think and let me know what you want me to focus on. But do it soon. We need to strike while the iron’s hot.’

‘Okay,’ I said, suddenly feeling very tired. ‘I’ll have a think.’

‘Amy,’ Babs said. ‘It’s going to be okay, you know.’

I tried to smile but it was more of a grimace.

‘Yeah, we’ll see,’ I said. ‘We’ll see.’

Chapter 3

‘Was it awful?’ Phil said, giving me a sympathetic look as he adjusted the hat on a mannequin.

I flopped dramatically over the low table where he showcased his most exclusive designs to his poshest customers.

‘So awful,’ I said. ‘I can’t even tell you how bad.’

‘Don’t put fingermarks on that table,’ Phil warned.

I gave him a fierce look but sat up anyway.

Well, it’s done now,’ Phil said. ‘You’ve filmed your last scenes. Betsy is no more.’

He paused.

‘So who killed her then?

I shrugged.

‘Not a clue,’ I said. ‘It was just one of the props guys who dealt the fatal blow – they only filmed his hand. They’ll add in someone later, when they decide who the killer’s going to be.’

Phil made a face.

‘It’s not a great ending,’ he said. ‘Still, onwards and upwards.’

Phil’s relentless cheeriness was what had brought us together at school. I loved him because, like me, he was always up for a party, because he understood what made me tick, and because he adored me. And we all need a bit of adoration in our lives, right?

Our friendship had lasted through several boyfriends (his and mine), broken hearts (his and mine), career highs (his and mine) and career lows (mostly mine), and he’d obviously been the person I’d run to when the shit hit the fan with Matty. The only fly in the ointment was Phil’s boyfriend, Bertie, who thought I was a bad influence (he was probably right) and who had not been pleased to see me when Phil brought me home, hungover and tear-stained, after spending hours in a cell.

Now Phil gently lifted my arm and extracted a fabric swatch from beneath my elbow.

‘What happens now?’ he said. ‘Where does Amy Lavender go from here?’

Self-pity overwhelmed me again and my throat began to ache with the promise of more tears.

‘Oh, Phil,’ I said. ‘I don’t know. What am I going to do?’

He put his arm round me.

‘You’ll bounce back, sweetie,’ he said. ‘You always do.’

But that made me feel even worse.

‘Everyone dumps me,’ I said quietly. ‘‘Eventually, everyone gets fed up with me and they dump me.’

‘That’s not true,’ Phil said.

‘It is true.’ I sniffed and Phil thrust a tissue box in my direction.

‘Matty dumped me,’ I said. Phil opened his mouth, probably to tell me I was well shot of Matty – he’d never been a fan – but I gave him a look and he closed it again.

‘Tim dumped me from Turpin Road,’ I went on. A tear ran down my cheek. ‘Even my own mum, Phil. She dumped me.’

‘She didn’t dump you,’ Phil said, wiping my tear away with a folded tissue. ‘She just took a chance to make a better life for herself.’

‘In Spain,’ I pointed out. ‘Hundreds of miles away from me.’

‘You could have gone with her,’ Phil said. ‘She asked you to go.’

‘Only because she knew I wouldn’t,’ I said.

‘Have you spoken to her, since all this happened?’

‘God no,’ I said. ‘She’s only interested in me when things are going well. I bet she’s taken that photo of me down from the wall in her bar already. “My daughter the screw-up” isn’t half as impressive as “my daughter the soap star”.’

Phil chuckled, ruefully.

‘You’ve still got me, honey,’ he said. ‘You’ll always have me.’

I forced myself to smile at him.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘PhAmy for ever, right?’

‘Right,’ he said, kissing my nose.

But I wasn’t convinced. Phil had been my rock for years. My best friend, my support network, everything. But since he’d met Bertie I felt like I had to fight for his attention and I wasn’t sure I liked sharing him.’

‘So what are you going to do?’ Phil asked again. ‘Can I help?’

‘Would you?’ I asked, flashing him my best, most beseeching smile.

‘What do you need?’

‘Well, first I need to go and get all my stuff from Matty’s. The only clothes I’ve got are what I had at work – and I’m running out of knickers. But I can’t face him on my own, so will you come with me? Please?’

Phil put his arm round my shoulders again.

‘Of course,’ he said, kissing the top of my head. ‘I’ve got a few things I’d like to say to Mr Matthew actually.’

I grinned. Phil was always fighting my corner.

‘And then, I need you to help with one more thing,’ I said. ‘I need to choose a reality TV show. Babs reckons that’s the best way to get the public back on my side.’

Phil, who, if he ever went on Mastermind, would choose the specialist subject Reality TV 2000–2015, gave a deep, satisfied sigh.

‘She’s right,’ he said. ‘She’s completely spot-on. Ooh, she’s clever.’

‘She should be,’ I grumbled. ‘I pay her enough.’

‘So which show?’ Phil said.

‘I convinced her to let me choose,’ I told him. ‘Babs reckons she can get me on anything. You know what she’s like – she knows all the right people. I’m just not sure it’s the right thing to do.’

Phil looked at me appraisingly, his head tilted to one side. Then he nodded.

‘Of course,’ he said in delight. ‘It’s perfect.’

‘What?’ I said, suspicious of his gleeful expression. ‘What are you thinking? Not Drag Race?’

Phil gave a chuckle.

‘No,’ he said. He pushed his thick-rimmed glasses (just for show – they had clear lenses but he thought they gave him a geekish charm, and he was right) up his nose and pulled me to my feet.

‘I’m thinking you in a tiny bikini, tanned, skinny, bravely carrying on without Matty, perhaps flirting a little with another similarly tanned young, male TV star, and showing the legions of Amy fans – and those who dared to be Amy doubters – what a game old bird you are.’

‘Ohhhh,’ I breathed. ‘You mean the jungle?’

‘The jungle,’ Phil said. ‘It’s perfect.’

I thought about it.

‘I’d be away for weeks – so no paps chasing me the whole time,’ I said. ‘Lots of time to think, to work out what I want to do next …’

‘And you look smoking hot in a bikini,’ Phil said.

I made a modest face. I knew he was right.

‘You’re strong because you work out, like, all the time, you’re sporty and adventurous, you’re funny, you’re kind … you’re bound to win.’

‘What about my hair extensions?’ I said, holding up a strand of the brunette locks that were my pride and joy.

‘They’ll have to come out,’ Phil said, grim-faced. ‘Better to do it now, so people get used to seeing you without them.’

I nodded.

‘I can do that,’ I said. ‘New hair, new start.’

‘So ring Babs and tell her,’ Phil said. ‘Do it, do it now.’

‘Okay, okay,’ I giggled, pulling my phone out. ‘I’m doing it.’

I found Babs in my contacts, and waited for her to answer.

‘Voicemail,’ I said. ‘She must be on the tube … Babs, it’s Amy. The jungle. I want to go to the jungle. Call me back.’

As I ended the call, there was a ring on the doorbell of the shop.

‘I thought you were closed,’ I said to Phil.

He frowned.

‘I am,’ he said. ‘Oh, balls. I’d forgotten about her.’

‘Who?’ I said. ‘What?’

‘Natasha Lucas,’ he said. ‘She’s a fashion editor.’

‘A journalist,’ I shrieked, diving off the chair and under the table so she wouldn’t spot me through the glass door.

‘Relax Princess Di,’ Phil said with a smile, waving at the woman and going to open the door. ‘She works for Society magazine. She only cares about toffs. She won’t have a clue who you are.’

‘She might,’ I said frostily, crawling out from under the table. ‘You’d be amazed how many people watch Turpin Road.’

‘Darling Natasha,’ Phil said, throwing open the door. ‘Come in!’

In came a tall, willowy blonde woman in her early forties. She had her hair in a neat twist, and she was wearing a classic tan mac, cropped white trousers, nude sandals and a striped blue-and-white scarf. I instantly felt cheap and scruffy in my baggy jeans and hoodie.

‘God, Phil,’ Natasha said, throwing her oversized bag onto the chair next to me. ‘I am having such a day. Sorry to be so late – and looking such a mess.’

I raised an eyebrow and Natasha noticed me for the first time.

‘Hi,’ she said, sticking out a hand for me to shake. ‘I’m Natasha.’

‘Amy,’ I said, hoping my hands were clean. ‘I’m Phil’s best friend.’

‘Lovely,’ said Natasha, sounding like she didn’t really care. ‘Anyway, can I have a root around, darling? We’ve got this blasted photo shoot first thing and I need at least three, probably four, hats and the stylist’s pulled out so I’m organizing the whole thing on my own. Plus my nanny’s gone AWOL, my buggering husband’s sodded off to Hong bloody Kong, the baby’s got chicken pox, my grandmother isn’t well, and basically everything’s gone to shit.’

I grinned at her. It was nice to meet someone who was having almost as rotten a time as I was.

‘Cup of tea?’ I said.

Chapter 4

When I came back into the shop from the tiny kitchen out the back, Natasha was wearing one hat, holding another, and had her phone balanced between her shoulder and her ear.

‘No, no, no,’ she was saying. ‘There’s simply no point in sending another inexperienced nanny. I’ve got four horrible children and they will break her. I need someone tough …’

‘She’s hilarious,’ I said, putting down the tea tray.

Phil nodded.

‘She juggles about a million things, but she’s always in control,’ he said. ‘Her fashion spreads are gorgeous and believe me it’s worth my while to be a bit flexible for her.’

He sat down on the sofa and patted the cushion next to him.

‘Listen, Amy,’ he said, his voice serious. ‘I need to tell you something.’

‘About Natasha?’ I said, in a whisper. ‘What?’

Phil gave a faint smile.

‘No, not about Natasha,’ he said. ‘About Bertie.’

I tried to look sympathetic.

‘Not going well?’ I said. ‘I’m not surprised. You’re very different people, you and boring Bertie.’

Phil laughed.

‘Nice try, Miss Lavender, but yes, it’s going very well, thank you. In fact, Bertie’s parents are coming over from France next weekend and I’m keen to make a good impression on them.’

‘Ohmygod you are adorable,’ I said, taking his face in my hands. ‘Of course you’ll make a good impression.’

Phil took my hands from his cheeks and held them tightly.

‘Amy,’ he said. ‘Please try and understand what I’m telling you.’

Realization dawned.

‘You’re kicking me out?’ I said. ‘You don’t want me in your flat when Bertie’s parents are there?’

Phil screwed up his nose.

‘Sorry, darling,’ he said. ‘You know I wouldn’t see you on the streets, but this is really important to me.’

I took a deep breath.

‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Honestly. I can easily find somewhere to live. No problem. I’ll go and stay with Mum perhaps.’

‘Really?’ said Phil. ‘I’m not sure that’s a very good idea.’

Slumping against the sofa cushions, I bit my lip.

‘Nah, probably not,’ I admitted. ‘There are more paps in Marbella than there are here nowadays. It’d be a nightmare. Don’t worry, I’ll find somewhere.’

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Natasha, who’d come to stand in front of me. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing.’

I narrowed my eyes.

‘It was actually a private conversation,’ I said.

Natasha waved her hand as if there was no such thing, her huge blinging engagement ring catching the light.

‘You’re Amy Lavender, right?’ she said.

I threw Phil a triumphant look. See! She did know who I was.

‘Yes,’ I said cautiously. ‘That’s me.’

‘So I’m guessing you need somewhere to live that’s cheap and quiet and available right now?’

‘Yes,’ I said again, sitting up a bit straighter. ‘Do you know somewhere?’

‘I certainly do,’ said Natasha. She sat down in between me and Phil.

‘My mother has just had something of a mid-life crisis – for the fourth, or perhaps the fifth time. This time, she’s in the throes of a passionate affair with a yoga instructor and she’s headed off on a sort of old lady gap year,’ she began.

I blinked at her, impressed at the idea of her mum and the yoga teacher, but not knowing how this had anything to do with me.

‘Okaaaaay,’ I said

‘So, she convinced me to keep an eye on my grandmother,’ Natasha carried on. ‘Which is no hardship because I adore her, but I’ve got such a lot on, and it’s proving hard to get round to hers every day.’

She chewed her lip.

‘She’s quite sprightly, really, considering she’s almost ninety. She doesn’t need much looking after. Just someone who’s there, you know, if she needs something?’

‘Okaaaaay,’ I said again, still not understanding. ‘Oh, god. Do you mean me? I can’t look after an old lady.’

Natasha gripped my hand.

‘You can,’ she said. ‘She’s fine. She can look after herself, honestly. It’s not like you need to cook for her, or bathe her, or anything like that. Her house has a flat, in the basement. It’s really nice – I lived there myself when I was younger. One bedroom, lounge, blah, blah. So you wouldn’t even be living with her, not really. She just needs someone who’s there in case she has a fall.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not the right person. I’m too selfish to be an old woman’s companion.’

Natasha gripped my hand tighter.

‘Ow,’ I said. ‘Where is it?’

‘Clapham.’

I screwed my nose up.

‘I don’t like South London,’ I said.

‘It’s perfect,’ Phil commented. ‘There won’t be any paps down there. You’ll be left alone.’

He had a point, but that wasn’t enough to change my mind.

‘The rent’s cheap.’

‘How cheap?’

Natasha named a tiny figure that I could easily afford even if I didn’t work for the next six months, and Phil widened his eyes.

‘So I won’t need to bathe her?’ I said.

‘You probably won’t even see her,’ Natasha said. ‘She’s got loads of friends. I just need to know you’re going to be there overnight and that she can call on you if she needs to.’

‘I can only stay for a few weeks,’ I said, checking my phone to see if Babs had called back. ‘I’m going into the jungle, and who knows what could happen after that.’

‘My mother should be back by the New Year,’ Natasha said. ‘The timing is perfect.’

I knew when I was beaten.

‘Fine,’ I said, throwing my head back against the sofa. ‘Fine. Yes, I’ll move in.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Natasha said hopefully. Phil clapped his hands and I glared at him.

‘Tomorrow,’ I agreed wearily.

My phone rang and I snatched it up, hoping it was Babs with good news about the jungle. But it was Josie, a TV presenter who lived in the flat below Matty’s. She was probably calling for the gossip, I thought, cancelling the call. Immediately she rang again. I rejected the call once more. There was a pause, and Josie started calling again. I sighed.

‘I should take this,’ I said to Natasha and Phil. ‘Hi Josie.’

‘Amy, you need to get here,’ Josie said. ‘Matty’s putting all your stuff outside in the street. There are loads of tramps wearing your dresses and the paps are going crazy.’

‘WHAT?’ I shrieked. ‘Which dresses?’

‘I don’t know,’ Josie said. ‘Does it matter?’

‘I suppose not,’ I admitted. ‘I’m on my way.’

I ended the call and stood up, tossing my hair over my shoulders.

‘I have to go,’ I said, trying hard not to cry. ‘It seems that, not content with breaking my heart, Matty’s determined to make a fool of me in the papers too.’

Natasha delved into her huge tote bag and pulled out a piece of paper. She scribbled something on it, then delved again and found a set of keys.

‘Here,’ she said, shoving them at me. ‘This is the address and these are the keys. You can move in tonight if you like?’

Relief flooded me. And Phil, by the look on his face. Clearly he didn’t want to think about taking me – and all my belongings – back to his pristine flat for another night.

‘Thank you,’ I said, meaning it.

‘Will you be okay on your own?’ Phil said.

‘Oh, I’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘How much worse can things get?’

Ready to face the world – and the paparazzi – I twisted my hair into a ponytail, pulled on my baseball cap and picked up my sunglasses. Then I grabbed my bag and gave Phil a kiss.

‘Thanks for everything, buddy,’ I said. ‘I’ll give you a call later.’

Chapter 5

I found a cab without any trouble and soon I was on my way to my old flat in Camden, feeling sick with nerves about what I’d find when I got there.

What I found was worse than I could have imagined. Matty had stuffed all my clothes into bin bags and then, by the look of it, chucked them all off the balcony of our – sorry, his – first-floor flat. Some of the bags had burst and so clothes were scattered across the drive. Pyjamas, underwear, jeans, dresses – they were all strewn on the paving stones and on the neighbours’ cars. One of my bras swung jauntily from the handlebars of Matty’s motorbike.

It was raining so everything was slightly soggy and, like Josie had said, word had obviously spread around Camden. Some giggling schoolgirls were rooting through the bin bag squealing in delight as they pulled out all my gorgeous clothes and shoved them into their backpacks. And the old bearded man who hung out at the tube station dancing to the music from the buskers was wearing one of my favourite dresses.

Aghast, I pushed my face up against the window of the cab.

‘That’s my soap awards dress,’ I wailed.

I opened the window a fraction and was wondering if I should shout something at someone when I heard a yell.

Matty was hanging out of the bedroom window. I gasped when I saw him. He was so handsome. I’d spent the last two days thinking of him as some kind of monster so it was strange to see him now looking so good. Seriously, seriously good. I almost wanted to rush over to him, kiss his beautiful face, tell him how sorry I was and beg him to take me back …

‘Take everything you want,’ he was yelling. ‘Help yourselves.’

Oh.

Of course there were three photographers busy capturing everything, plus a camera crew, obviously filming for Matty’s fly-on-the-wall show.

‘Keep driving,’ I shrieked. ‘Keep driving!’

The cab driver met my eyes in the mirror and nodded briskly. Next to me, on the pavement, the teenage girls dug into another bag, pulling out what seemed to be my favourite jeans and trainers.

I made a split-second decision.

‘Stop!’ I shouted. The cabbie jammed on the brakes and I was out onto the pavement in a flash, leaving the taxi door open. As skilfully as any rugby player I swerved round the group of girls. Then, catching them unawares, I yanked the bin liner from one of the girl’s hands, pulled my prized Marc Jacobs clutch from an outstretched arm, and scooped up a pair of battered Converse. Then, before the photographers even had a chance to notice I was there, I dived back into the cab and slammed the door.

‘Drive!’ I yelled, feeling like Thelma. Or was it Louise? ‘Driiiiive!’

‘Where to, miss?’ the cabbie said politely, flooring the accelerator and speeding away from the flat.

I took a breath.

‘Clapham,’ I said. ‘Take me to Clapham.’

I looked down at the Converse I had clasped in my trembling hands.

‘I don’t think these are mine,’ I said in surprise.

The cabbie let out a snort of laughter.

‘I reckon you deserve them,’ he said

‘I reckon I do.’ I looked out of the back window of the cab at the window where Matty still stood. We were going pretty fast so it was hard to see but I liked to think he looked a bit forlorn and I felt glad. After all, he had smashed my heart into tiny pieces.

‘You that Amy Lavender?’ the cabbie asked as we hurtled south. I thought about denying it but there wasn’t much point given what he’d just witnessed. Instead I nodded.

‘That’s me,’ I said.

‘He’s an idiot that fella,’ he said, winking at me in the mirror. ‘You’re well shot of him.’

I smiled. That was nice to hear.

‘I messed up,’ I said.

‘Had a drink, had you?’ the cabbie asked.

‘More than one.’

‘Well, we’ve all been there,’ he said. ‘Things get a bit tasty when you’ve all had a few. But the way I see it, you had good reason.’

He grinned.

‘Mind you, probably should have belted him – not her.’

I laughed for what seemed like the first time in days.

‘Want him back?’ he asked.

‘Nope.’

‘Nice one,’ he said, indicating and pulling into the kerb. ‘Find someone who’s worthy of you, that’s my advice. Here we are then.’

He had stopped outside a beautiful house facing a huge expanse of grass – Clapham Common, I guessed.

I widened my eyes in surprise.

‘Is this it?’

It was. It was a stunning house. One of the Victorian double-fronted villas that lined the edges of the common like sentries. It had wrought-iron railings, flowers in pots either side of the enormous front door, and a black-and-white tiled path. And to the left some stone steps led down to a second front door, this one painted a smart grey, at basement level. My new home. For now.

I handed over a bundle of notes and scrambled out of the car, clutching my handbag, bin liner and the stolen Converse. The cabbie waved cheerily at me as he drove off and I blew him a kiss – he’d been a real tonic – and gazed up at the house. I saw a movement at the window on the ground floor and wondered if the old woman was watching me. Maybe she was planning to phone the papers and tell them where I was, I thought, slightly hysterically. Or perhaps she was going to be a nosey old trout who made my life a misery. I squinted at the window again but I couldn’t see anyone, so I made my way carefully down the steep stairs.

The flat was actually really nice and surprisingly light for a basement. It had one bedroom with a double bed and fitted wardrobes – not that I had much to put in them – and when I lay on the bed to test it I could see people’s feet and ankles as they walked along the road.

There was a basic bathroom and a large sitting room, with an open-plan kitchen area at one end. It was a lovely room with wooden floors, an original tiled fireplace and French windows that opened onto a tiny paved backyard. There was a sofa and a squishy armchair, a small TV and DVD player, and empty bookshelves. It was all a bit unloved but it was okay. For now, I thought again.

My phone rang and I dived for it. Babs.

‘Hit me with it,’ I said. ‘When do I fly out to Oz?’

There was a pause.

‘Ah,’ said Babs.

‘What do you mean, “ah”?’ I said, hysteria mounting. ‘What does “ah” mean?’

‘Jungle’s not a goer, I’m afraid,’ Babs said. ‘But don’t be downhearted. I’ve come up with something really special.’

‘Really?’ I said, curiosity overtaking my disappointment. ‘What is it?’

‘I’ve called in just about every favour I’ve ever been owed, and pulled a lot of strings,’ Babs said.

‘Yes,’ I said.

Babs made a noise that I thought was supposed to be a drum roll.

‘Babs,’ I said. ‘What is it?’

‘Strictly. Stars. Dancing,’ she said triumphantly.

I sat down heavily on the sofa.

‘What?’ I said.

‘Strictly Stars Dancing,’ Babs said again. ‘It’s glittery, it’s fabulous and it’s going to make you the nation’s darling once more.’

I felt sick.

‘Babs,’ I whispered. ‘I can’t dance.’

Chapter 6
Cora

I watched as the girl stumbled down the steps to the basement flat, carrying bin liners that spilled their contents over the concrete stairs. She was very pretty, though her eyes were swollen and red, from crying, I assumed. And she was very thin. Her legs in her skin-tight jeans were like twigs. She reminded me of my Ginny, back in the sixties, when she was fashionably little-boy thin and wore her ravishing red hair in a pixie crop that made her look like a street urchin.

The girl looked up at my window and I drew back slightly, not wanting to be spotted spying.

She looked, I thought, like someone in trouble, as she stood at the front door of the flat, gripping the keys so tightly her knuckles gleamed white. Someone in need of a friend. Her shoulders slumped as she plucked a bra from where it had dropped onto one of the plants next to the door, then she turned the key in the lock and went inside.

Disappointed, I gave up my vantage point and settled down on the sofa. My new tenant interested me. There was something in the set of her shoulders, in the haunted look in her eye, that reminded me of the girl I’d once been – frightened, heartbroken, but, in my case, not alone. My eyes rested on a photograph of Audrey and me that stood on the mantelpiece. It had been taken in the fifties and we both wore clam-digger trousers and fitted blouses. I remembered how sassy we’d thought ourselves in those outfits. We were grinning like the kids we were really. Audrey had a cigarette dangling from her lips and I was laughing, with my head thrown back.

‘I hope she’s got a friend like you, Aud,’ I said aloud, wondering if I was finally turning into a batty old woman. ‘And I hope, if she does, she listens to hers.’

I picked up my half-drunk G&T and raised it towards the ceiling.

‘I should have listened to you, Audrey,’ I said. ‘I should have listened.’

1944

I peeked through the gap in the curtains and hugged myself in delight. He was here. Just as he’d promised he would be. Sitting bang in the middle, about three rows back. Worried he’d spot me spying, I let the curtain drop, but then couldn’t resist taking another look. Donnie was smiling widely and looked wonderfully handsome, every bit as handsome as I remembered. I had a churning excitement in my stomach and I couldn’t wait to talk to him after the show. To hold him and kiss him.

‘Is he here?’ Audrey stood on her tiptoes to see through the curtain above my head.

I gave her a shove.

‘I’m trying to be discreet,’ I giggled. ‘Don’t make it so obvious that we’re looking.’

‘Girls,’ Henry, the entertainment officer, hissed at us from the side of the stage. ‘Places, please.’

The band struck up and, still laughing, Audrey and I ran to get into position for the opening number.

I loved being on stage. I liked everything about it – the costumes, make-up, the applause from the audience. I enjoyed singing, though I knew I wasn’t a natural singer, not like Audrey was. I did short skits with Nigel, a rotund actor who everyone adored and I liked those, too – it was fun making people laugh. But it was dancing that was my real love. I heard music in my head all the time, and so I danced all the time, when I was queuing for breakfast, or making my bed at whatever digs we were staying in that week. Sometimes I wondered how other people stayed so still.

And on stage – oh, that was where I really came alive. I didn’t care if I was dancing a solo or part of the chorus line, I loved it all. And frankly I was so glad to finally have been allowed to become part of the Entertainment National Service Association, now I’d turned eighteen, and to shake off the shackles of my overbearing mother, that I always made the effort to enjoy every single part of a performance.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I was distracted. I barely registered the first few numbers, I performed my solo – which was my favourite part of the show – as if in a dream, and though I tried to throw myself into my comic scenes with Nigel, I knew I wasn’t really firing on all cylinders. Because of Donnie. He was all I could think about, and for the first time since I’d joined up, I just wanted the show to be over.

As soon as the curtain fell on the grand finale, I scarpered. I raced to the tent the girls in the company used as a dressing room and stripped off my costume. It was an adapted showgirl outfit commandeered from a London theatre and, though it looked wonderful under the lights, up close it was shabby and losing its sheen.

I pulled it off and instead put on my uniform, wishing I had something else to wear. I brushed my blonde hair until it shone, and pinned it up, then I pinched my cheeks to give them some colour, thanking my lucky stars that, unlike some of my friends back home, who were working in factories and kitchens and hospitals, I still had make-up. I spat on my mascara and slicked it onto my lashes and smoothed on a tiny amount of red lipstick. I may have had make-up but who knew how long it would last? Then I checked my appearance in the mirror and grinned.

‘Not bad, Cora,’ I said.

Audrey appeared in the doorway of the tent.

‘Blimey, you were off that stage at a fair old whack,’ she said. She straightened my skirt over my hips and kissed me on the cheek.

‘You look beautiful,’ she said. ‘I hope he’s bloody worth it?’

I gave her a poke.

‘I think so,’ I said. ‘Which is all that matters.’

Audrey rolled her eyes at me.

‘Just be careful, Cora,’ she said. ‘The one thing blokes are good at is lying.’

I poked her again.

‘Don’t be so miserable,’ I said. ‘Have you seen him?’

Audrey scowled at me, then her face softened.

‘He’s waiting for you out the back, you soppy cow. I saw him just now. Go on, if you really have to. Go!’

I gave a small squeal and rushed off to find Donnie.

He was waiting exactly where Audrey said he would be, behind the mess hall where the performance had been. He was watching some bags being loaded onto trucks and he had his back to me.

Suddenly shy, I paused, but he turned and saw me, and opened his arms, and all my shyness was forgotten as I ran to him.

We walked round the edge of the camp, hand in hand. It was dark there and away from the shouts and engine noises. You could even hear the wind in the trees on the other side of the fence, if you listened hard enough. It wasn’t the most romantic location but just being with Donnie made it perfect.

‘How long are you staying this time?’ Donnie said as they strolled. His soft American accent made me shiver with pleasure. I’d found myself forgetting his voice over the months since I’d seen him last and so it was wonderful to hear him again.

I groaned.

‘Only a few nights,’ I said. ‘Nothing like as long as last time.’

When we’d been at the camp before we’d stayed for a month, doing shows on a rotation to the GIs stationed there. With so much time together, my romance with Donnie had blossomed and our letters had kept things going while I toured Britain with the ENSA.

But there weren’t many troops left now. Donnie would be headed back to France before too long, and this time we only had a few days.

‘Tell me again,’ I said now. ‘Tell me the plan.’

Donnie had mapped out our future while we’d been apart, spelling it all out in his letters. But I’d never heard him actually say the words.

‘When this damn war finally ends, and the Americans send those Germans packing,’ he began.

I giggled and pulled his arm round my shoulders, grateful of his warmth on this cold, clear night.

‘Not just the Americans,’ I said.

Donnie chuckled.

‘Whatever you say, honey,’ he drawled in an over-the-top accent.

‘So when the war is over …’ I prompted, giving him a fake-stern look.

‘We’ll ship out of England and head back to the States,’ Donnie said. ‘Soon as we can.’

‘And where will we go?’ I said, knowing the answer but wanting him to say it.

‘Well, I guess we should call in on my folks,’ Donnie said. ‘Mom’s desperate to meet you.’

‘She is?’

‘Sure she is. I got a letter from her just the other day asking to know more about you.’

I blinked. This was all news to me.

‘More?’ she said. ‘What have you told her already?’

‘That you’re beautiful, funny, talented and you’ve made me the happiest man in England,’ Donnie said.

‘Sounds about right,’ I said, striking a pose.

‘Have you told your mom about me?’ Donnie asked.

Up ahead was a parked jeep. Not wanting to answer Donnie’s question, I saw my chance to distract him, so I bounced over to the car and climbed up onto the bonnet.

‘Come on,’ I said. I lay back against the windscreen and looked up at the stars, bright in the clear December sky. Donnie climbed up next to me and gripped my hand.

‘So we’ll call in on the folks in Connecticut and then we’ll get on a train,’ he continued.

‘A train,’ I said. ‘That’s good. I like trains.’

‘We’ll go all the way cross country. We’ll go to Chicago – I love Chicago. And to Las Vegas – take in a few shows.’

I was getting impatient.

‘And where then?’ I said.

‘And then we’ll go to Hollywood,’ said Donnie, propping himself up on his elbow and looking down at me. ‘And you’ll be snapped up by some big movie producer and you’ll dance in films and become the superstar you were born to be.’

I reached up and rubbed his buzz cut with the palm of my hand.

‘What will you do?’ I asked, looking deep into his blue eyes.

‘I’ll devote my life to making you happy,’ he said, bending his neck to kiss me. ‘That’s all I care about.’

Chapter 7

‘This is a very bad idea,’ I said to Phil as we went up the stairs to the theatre.

‘Oh, get over yourself,’ he said, giving me a delicate nudge. ‘You can’t shut yourself away for ever.’

‘It’s hardly for ever,’ I said. ‘It’s only been a week.’

‘One week and two days,’ Phil said. ‘And one royal pregnancy announcement, one pop star falling off the stage at an awards ceremony, and one fabulous dress worn by Beyoncé. The gossip mags have moved on. Everyone’s moved on. It’s time you did, too.’

‘I’m moving on,’ I said, sulkily. ‘But unfortunately, I’m moving on to a bloody dance show when I’ve got two left feet and I’m going to be a laughing stock.’

‘You’re not that bad. I’ve seen you throwing some magnificent shapes on the dance floor after a few drinks.’

‘Yes, but I can’t get hammered before every rehearsal, can I?’ I said, wondering if, in fact, I could.

‘Relax,’ Phil said, taking my hand. ‘You’ll love this show and I guarantee it’ll give you the dancing bug.’

We were at a West End theatre to watch the opening night of a revival of a classic Broadway musical. Phil had promised me old-school Hollywood glamour and lots of dancing to get me in the mood. I wasn’t convinced, but he was right that I needed a night out. A week rattling round in my empty flat had made me stir crazy.

‘You look fabulous, by the way,’ Phil said as we found our seats.

I bobbed a curtsey to him.

‘Well, thank you, sir,’ I said. ‘I had to go shopping because sodding Matty virtually gave away all my clothes and this dress just fell into my basket.’

Phil raised an eyebrow.

‘Sure it did,’ he said, looking at the Gatsby-style beaded shift dress appraisingly. ‘Don’t forget you’re not earning at the moment.’

‘Shh,’ I said, not wanting to hear his words of wisdom right at that second. ‘It’s starting.’

Phil was right. It was a gorgeous, gorgeous show and it did make me want to get up and dance. Though I wasn’t sure I could pull it off with quite as much style as the leading lady. It was glitzy and sparkly and wonderful and as the curtain went down I clapped until my hands stung.

‘Sooooo,’ Phil said, hopefully. ‘Did you love it?’

I nodded.

‘Yes, I loved it.’

‘And is Phil always right?’

I made a face.

‘About this,’ I admitted. ‘But I wouldn’t say always.’

‘What about this?’ Phil said. He produced two tickets to the opening night party and I groaned.

‘A party?’ I said. ‘Really?’

‘Really,’ he said, grabbing my hand. ‘It’s fine. You need to get back out there and this is a good place to start. It’s going to be quiet, classy, and there’s absolutely no chance Matty will be there.’

‘Okay,’ I said, letting him lead me up the stairs to the bar at the very top of the theatre where the party was. ‘Let’s go and party.’

Phil was right. It was indeed a quiet party. But it was kind of nice, and knowing it was Matty’s idea of a nightmare made it easier for me to relax. There was a barbershop quartet in the corner, singing songs from musicals, and groups of people stood together chatting and drinking glasses of champagne.

‘It’s very sophisticated,’ I said to Phil. ‘Not sure I belong here.’ Phil took two glasses from a passing waiter and stuck his tongue out at me.

‘Of course you do,’ he said. ‘We both do.’

I shook my head at the glass he offered and swapped it for an orange juice when the waiter passed us again.

‘I’m off booze,’ I said. ‘It just gets me into trouble.’

We stayed for a while, chatting about mutual friends and eating as many canapés as we could get our hands on. But it wasn’t the most exciting party in the world and, eventually, Phil looked at his phone.

‘Do you mind if we call it a night?’ he said. ‘Bertie’s round the corner with his parents and I said I’d go and meet them. Do you want to come?’

I shuddered.

‘God no,’ I said. ‘I’ll head home.’

‘Do you want me to find you a cab?’ Phil said.

‘Nah,’ I said, picking up my bag. ‘I’ll pop to the loo first and then head out. Call me tomorrow?’

Phil gave me a quick squeeze.

‘Will do,’ he said. ‘Stay safe.’

I blew him a kiss as he headed for the stairs, then I went to find the loo.

I was still in the cubicle when I heard two women come in, chatting in that slightly too loud way that told me they’d had rather a lot of champagne.

‘I just hope this is it,’ one was saying. ‘I’ve fucking had enough of being in the chorus line. If this isn’t my big break, then I don’t know what else I can do.’

‘You could get your boobs done,’ the other one said. ‘Everyone does it.’

‘How would that help?’

‘Dunno,’ the second one said, giggling. ‘I have no idea.’

I went to flush the toilet, then stopped as I heard them say my name.

‘… like Amy Lavender,’ the first one said. ‘She was here earlier, did you see her?’

Great. I couldn’t burst out of the cubicle now, could I? Surprise! Quietly I put the seat down and sat on it.

‘Do you know what I heard about Amy Lavender?’ the other one said, lowering her voice to a quiet shriek.

Oh, this would be good.

‘Her name’s not even Amy Lavender. It’s Amy Brown.’

‘Nooooo,’ said the first one.

Sitting on the loo, I rolled my eyes. That was hardly a state secret. My real name was, in fact, Amy Lavender Brown, so I’d simply dropped the boring Brown when I started acting. It had been my mum’s idea, actually – in fact, it was the reason behind my unusual middle name. She’d hoped I’d be a star one day, even before I could talk. Pressure, much?

‘I feel a bit sorry for her, you know?’ one girl said. ‘Everyone knew her fella was cheating on her, for months and months before she found out.’

Oh, really? I thought. People were always so wise after the event.

‘True,’ the other one said. ‘He slept with Casey. And he was all over Felicity at that album party.’

My mind raced. What album party? Not the one Matty went to when I’d been doing that week of night shoots? Surely not …

‘He tried it on with me once,’ the first one said. ‘He was quite persistent. I had to get Greg to have a word with him in the end.’

‘What a sleaze,’ said the other girl. Then she giggled. ‘You had a lucky escape, though. That Amy Lavender could have whacked you instead.’

Laughing, they both left the toilets and I heard the double doors back into the bar bang shut.

I sat there for a while, trying to process what I’d heard. Matty had cheated on me before? It just didn’t make sense. I had to speak to him, to find out if it was true. I pulled my phone out of my bag and scrolled to his number, then paused. No, I was giving too much weight to silly gossip. It wasn’t true.

Feeling more settled, I flushed the loo, washed my hands and made for the stairs. Then I changed my mind and headed to the bar instead. I needed something to calm my nerves.

‘Champagne, please,’ I said to the barmaid, all my intentions of staying teetotal abandoned. ‘Quick as you like.’

Chapter 8

‘Celebrating?’ said the man next to me at the bar. He was sitting on a bar stool, slumped over his own glass of bubbles.

I downed my glass in one mouthful and turned to look at him.

‘Well, I just found out my ex-boyfriend was actually cheating on me for a lot longer than I thought, with more women than I thought, and that just about everyone else in London knew about it and was laughing at me behind my back. Do you think that sounds like a reason to celebrate?’

The man laughed.

‘Sure it does,’ he said. He had a soft American drawl that I liked. ‘Sit down.’

I perched on a stool next to him and he topped up my glass and then his own.

‘What are you celebrating?’ I asked. He didn’t look particularly joyful, gazing into the bottom of his champagne flute like the answers to all the world’s problems were there.

‘Oh, nothing much,’ he said. ‘I got offered the job of my dreams this afternoon.’

‘Well, that’s good,’ I said, encouragingly.

‘Yeah, it is,’ he said. ‘But when I called home to tell my parents, my dad wasn’t interested because I’m not in his line of work.’

‘What’s that?’ I said, draining my glass again.

‘He sells cars,’ the man said. He ran his fingers through his blond hair. ‘And my mom was more interested in telling me my high-school girlfriend just got married.’

‘Do you care that she got married?’ I asked.

‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Not really. I’ve not seen her for years. But then I came here to support my flatmate – he’s the lead. And he’s abandoned me to go off with some girl.’

He looked into his glass again.

‘I just felt a bit lonely.’

I grinned at him.

‘It sucks, doesn’t it?’

He nodded.

‘So why don’t we get drunk and drown those sorrows?

He smiled back at me, showing straight white teeth in what was, I now realized, rather a handsome face.

See, I told Philip in my head, I am moving on.

While my companion ordered another bottle from the barmaid, I studied him. He was about as different from Matty as it was possible to be. Matty was swarthy with finely styled dark hair and – at the moment, at least – a beard. This guy was clean-cut with messy blond hair and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose. He looked like an overgrown and – I cast a sneaky glance at his arms – very buff teenage surfer.

‘Do you surf?’ I asked him suddenly.

He smiled wistfully.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I grew up in California. Everyone surfs.’

‘Really?’

‘Nah, not really. But I do. I miss it when I’m here.’

‘You should go to Cornwall,’ I said. ‘There’s brilliant surfing down there. I used to go on holiday there with my best friend’s family when we were kids. Maybe I’ll take you one day.’

‘I’d like that.’

Our eyes met for a fraction of a second too long, and I felt slight butterflies in my stomach. Moving on could be fun, I thought.

It didn’t seem nearly as much fun when I woke up the next day.

My head was banging, and there was sun pouring through the window, which seemed to be in the wrong place.

Cautiously, and without lifting my painful skull, I opened one eye. Yes, that window definitely hadn’t been there yesterday. I opened the other eye. Man, that sunshine was bright – it had to be late morning, possibly even lunchtime. I felt on the bedside table for my phone to check the time – but the table wasn’t there. Hold on. What was happening? I sat up, trying to ignore the hammering in my head and looked round me.

I was in a smallish attic room, with a fitted wardrobe and white walls. It had one large window – the one the sun was streaming through – and two smaller ones on the opposite wall. My Gatsby dress was draped over a chair but I couldn’t see my underwear. I had a quick check under the duvet. Nope. No undies there. I squinted in the sunshine and saw my knickers poking out from under the bed. Next to me, snoring loudly, was the blond surfer.

‘Shit,’ I whispered. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ This was not staying under the radar. I was so desperate to get off the endless treadmill of courting the showbiz media one minute, then having to avoid the inevitable press interest when things went wrong – and this was not the way to go about it. I tried to remember leaving the party and if there were any photographers there. I couldn’t recall being papped, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened. Judging by the horrendous hangover I was developing, there were bound to be bits of the evening I didn’t remember exactly.

I did remember telling Surfer Dude how Matty had cheated on me over and over and I’d lost the upper hand by whacking poor Kayleigh. I also recalled him telling me that Matty was an idiot and that he didn’t deserve someone as nice as me. Which I’d thought was just the most lovely thing anyone had ever said to me, so I’d rewarded him with a kiss. And then another one. And we’d carried on kissing all the way to Surfer Dude’s flat. Which must be near the theatre because we’d definitely walked there, but I had no idea where I was exactly.

And then we’d kissed all the way to his bedroom. And it had been really very nice. My head may have been banging but I had no trouble remembering that part of the evening. Carefully, I peeked under the duvet again. Surfer Dude was starkers as well. And rather magnificent he looked, too.

Focus, Amy.

So we’d had sex. That was fine. Perhaps not my classiest moment, but a completely understandable reaction to being cheated on. Best way to get over one man was to get under another, Phil always said. But now I had to get out of there without being spotted by anyone – I couldn’t risk more pics on the PostOnline’s Sidebar of Shame; I’d never work again. And I definitely had to leave before the whole awkward ‘I’ll call you’ thing happened. I felt a small pang of regret. He was really nice, Surfer Dude. If I’d met him at a better time, who knew what could have happened? But right now, I had to focus on saving my career. Sleeping with someone new wasn’t the best start.

Carefully I slid out of bed, picked up my dress and pulled it over my head. Then I went in search of my bag and shoes. They were in the lounge. I sat on the sofa – where I remembered sitting last night – and pulled on my heels, wishing I had my stolen Converse to put on instead. I was just checking I had my phone, my door keys and my purse when Surfer Dude appeared at the bottom of the stairs wearing a pair of shorts.

‘Doing a runner?’ he said with a grin. ‘I thought maybe we could hang out today.’

Don’t be nice to me, I thought. Please don’t be nice.

‘I’ve got stuff to do,’ I lied, trying to look apologetic. I blew him a kiss. ‘Thanks for a lovely night.’

I turned towards the front door, but Surfer Dude was too fast.

‘Was that a brush-off?’ he asked.

I paused.

‘I think it was,’ I said honestly. ‘Sorry.’

He grimaced.

‘Wow,’ he said. ‘You British girls are brutal.’

I felt a bit embarrassed.

‘Look,’ I said, knowing I was about to sound completely up myself and hating it. ‘I’m on TV – at least I was – and I’ve got an image that I need to protect. This was a mistake. I can’t be here.’

Surfer Dude winced.

‘It was a lovely night,’ I said. ‘Really. And I’m sorry.’

I pulled my dress down a bit so my walk of shame wasn’t quite so shameful (who was I kidding – everyone I passed was going to know what I’d been up to) and opened the front door.

It was only when I reached the street that I realized I didn’t even know his name.

Chapter 9
Cora

The sound of a car door slamming stirred me from my doze in the armchair. I found that increasingly these days I woke very early then snoozed in my chair whenever I sat down. This morning I’d risen before six, made myself a cup of tea, and settled down to read a book. But I’d fallen asleep almost immediately. My tea was still warm, though, I thought, touching the back of my hand to my mug, so I hadn’t been dozing for long.

Ever the nosey neighbour, I rose from the chair to see who was slamming doors at this early hour. It was my new tenant – Amy. She was leaning into the window of a taxi, paying a fare. I watched as she handed over the cash, then turned away to go down to her flat. She was wearing a sparkly 1920s-style dress and in her hands she had a pair of high heels and a similarly sparkly clutch bag. She looked very beautiful, I noted, but very overdressed for a Sunday morning in Clapham. She’d obviously been out all night and I hoped she’d had some fun – she’d struck me as someone who was in need of fun when I’d spied on her the other day. I smiled as she tiptoed down the stairs to her front door. She definitely reminded me of myself, I thought once again. At least, she reminded me of the old me. The one I’d once been …

1944

I hurried through the camp, stopping anyone I recognized to ask if they’d seen Donnie. I had no idea where he’d gone. His friend, Paul, had told me he’d had a letter from home and had seemed upset. So now I was worried he’d had some bad news and I wanted to find him to see if I could comfort him.

I skirted the edge of a garage and came face to face with another of Donnie’s friends, Rog.

‘Have you seen Donnie?’ I asked.

Rog nodded.

‘Saw the back of his head,’ he said, pointing to a storage tent. ‘He was going in there.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, giving his arm a squeeze.

I dashed into the tent and let the heavy canvas door drop behind me. It was dark in there and it took a while for my eyes to adjust.

‘Donnie,’ I whispered. ‘Donnie, are you in here?’

There was a noise from the back of the tent, so I carefully picked my way towards the far end. The tent was full of bags of uniforms, piles of boots, sandbags – anything and everything. And at the back, sitting on a pile of scratchy grey blankets, was Donnie. He was holding a letter and crying, and when he saw me he turned his face away so I wouldn’t see his tears.

My heart ached for him so much I felt his pain like it was my own. I sat down next to him and gathered him into my arms and he cried and cried onto my neck.

‘What is it?’ I whispered, kissing his tears away. ‘What’s happened?’

Donnie gave a sort of hiccupping sob.

‘Gene,’ he said.

I knew who Gene was. He’d been Donnie’s best friend since they started school. They’d gone all the way through school together but joined up separately – Gene into the navy and Donnie the army. Donnie talked about him a lot and had told me how much he wanted us to like each other. Now my stomach twisted with sadness.

‘Is he …?’

Donnie wiped his face with the heel of his hand and handed me the letter.

‘Torpedo,’ he said. ‘The ship sank. No survivors.’

I scanned the letter – it was from Donnie’s mum and broke the bad news in such a sweet, sad way that I felt tears pricking my eyelids, too.

‘Oh, darling,’ I said, pulling him closer to me. ‘What a sad, sad loss.’

‘This damn war,’ Donnie said. ‘You know, sometimes I don’t even know why we’re fighting.’

I didn’t know what to say. I’d been a schoolgirl when war broke out, and it was so much a part of my life that I couldn’t remember what it was like before. But I was lucky. I had no brothers to lose, and my dad, who’d seen action in the Great War, had passed away before war broke out this time.

Donnie was crying again.

‘I just want it to be over,’ he said. ‘I just want it to end.’

‘I know,’ I said, kissing him again.

‘I don’t want to go to France,’ Donnie said. ‘It’s awful there. It’s really, really awful. I’m scared, Cora.’

Now I was crying, too.

‘Oh, my darling, darling boy,’ I said. ‘I’m scared, too. I’m so scared. But we’ve got this time together. We need to make the most of it.’

Donnie nodded.

‘And when you’re in France, I want you to think about me all the time,’ I said, kissing his face all over. ‘I want you to think about the hours we’ve spent together, and the way you make me laugh more than anyone else, and the way you make me happier than anyone else ever has.’

Donnie kissed me deeply and I shivered in pleasure.

‘And the way your kisses turn my legs to jelly,’ I said weakly.

I began unbuttoning his shirt. Donnie stopped my hand with his and looked at me.

‘Are you sure?’ he said.

‘Anything can happen,’ I said, hearing my voice tremble a little bit. ‘Gene thought he had his whole life ahead of him and he didn’t. There are bombs dropping, and guns, and all sorts of horrible things. Anything can happen to anyone and I don’t want to regret not doing something when I had the chance.’

Afterwards we lay curled up together, under one of the scratchy blankets.

‘No regrets?’ Donnie said to me, his face close to mine.

‘Never,’ I said. ‘I will never regret today as long as I live.’

A shout from outside made us jump and I suddenly remembered where we were and what a risk we were taking.

‘I have to go,’ I said, kissing Donnie and then wriggling out from under the blanket. ‘Audrey will cover for me, but she can’t keep pretending I’m in the privy.’

I pulled on my skirt and buttoned up my shirt, while Donnie watched me, smiling.

‘What?’ I said.

‘You’re beautiful.’

I threw my hat at him, then had to retrieve it.

‘You soppy old so-and-so,’ I laughed.

‘I love you,’ he said.

I blew him a kiss.

‘I love you, too,’ I said.

For the next three days we met up in the tent whenever we could. We couldn’t get enough of each other. I wanted the smell of Donnie on my skin, the feel of his breath on my face. I just wanted to be near him all the time.

I knew that emotions were heightened because of the war, and that in peacetime our romance probably would have taken months, or even years, to get to this stage, but I didn’t care. Gene’s death had shown us how important it was to live in the moment and to make the most of every single day.

Our unit was going to London after Christmas – we had a six-month stint entertaining troops in the capital and I was looking forward to settling in one place for a while. But Donnie knew he’d be leaving for France soon. I tried not to think about how he’d be forced to live. The things he’d see and do. The danger he’d be in.

As Audrey and I were packing up our costumes and getting ready to hit the road, Donnie came to find me.

‘I have some good news,’ he said, grinning widely.

‘The war’s over?’ Audrey said, putting a feathery headdress into a box.

Donnie chuckled.

‘Not that good,’ he admitted. ‘But good for me. We’re going to be in London for a couple of nights before we leave for France in the spring.’

I was delighted.

‘Really?’ I said, throwing my arms round him. ‘So we can meet?’

Donnie looked down at me and kissed the end of my nose.

‘Oh, better than that,’ he said. ‘I thought we could get married.’

Chapter 10

I was having fun. Lots of fun, actually, much to my surprise. It was my first day on Strictly Stars Dancing and so far it had been brilliant.

I’d arrived at the studios early that morning, bracing myself to face photographers but there was no one there.

‘We’ll do all the publicity shots today in costume,’ the director explained. ‘Then we’ll release your names to the press one by one, starting tomorrow. We’ve not confirmed anyone yet – it creates a buzz.’

I’d felt a shiver of excitement when she mentioned costumes. I may have had misgivings about Strictly Stars Dancing but the fabulous outfits weren’t one of them. And I definitely wasn’t disappointed. As soon as we arrived we were hurried into the enormous costume department, where there were rails and rails of frothy material in every colour of the rainbow, racks of shoes, and wonderful headdresses. I’d never seen so much glitter. I let out a small whimper of joy; it was absolutely amazing.

I was whisked away by a dresser who took me to a rail with a sign saying AMY. It was filled with lots of very sparkly, very small costumes. I swallowed.

‘There’s not much to them,’ I said.

She grinned.

‘There’s not much to you,’ she said. ‘You’ll wear long dresses for ballroom and whatnot, but for the pics we wanted to make the most of that gorgeous bod of yours.’

The outfit she chose was a gold mini skirt and fitted crop top. Both the top and the skirt were completely covered in fringing and shimmered under the lights.

‘Really?’ I said, holding up the tiny scraps of material.

‘You’ll look fabulous,’ she said. ‘Trust me.’

At the risk of sounding big headed, she was right. Good genes – my mum still had the figure of a twenty-one-year-old despite three kids and a fondness for sangria – combined with years of controlling my diet and working out every day had made sure I didn’t have an ounce of blubber. The costume showed off my tight abs and my toned legs.

The hairdresser kept my brunette locks loose and gently waved. Instead of having my extensions taken out like I’d planned to do if I went into the jungle, I’d had them redone and I was very pleased with them. My hair fell over my boobs and halfway down my back and it was thick and lush. The Strictly Stars Dancing make-up was way over the top, but it worked with the costume and all, in all, the final result was pretty good.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror, turning from side to side to see every bit of the costume. I didn’t look like the normal me, but I quite liked the effect.

‘Smoking,’ said my dresser in admiration as she looked at me. ‘You look like the real deal.’

‘Except I can’t dance,’ I said, looking at my back view over my shoulder. ‘So as soon as I start to move, everyone will realize I’m not the real deal at all.’

She gave me a nudge.

‘Every single contestant I’ve ever dressed has said that,’ she said. ‘And they’ve all had a ball. The professional dancers are amazing – they’ll soon whip you into shape.’

Oh, God. I’d been trying to forget that, as well as having our photos done, we’d also be meeting our dance partners. I already felt sorry for whoever landed me. I was a lost cause.

I didn’t have long to wait. We gathered together in the main studio. I looked at the dance floor and imagined dancing there in front of millions of viewers and a lively audience and felt a bit sick.

‘Nervous?’ said one of my fellow competitors. He was a rugby player – absolutely enormous with broad shoulders and ripped abs.

‘So nervous I can’t even think about it,’ I confessed.

He laughed.

‘It’ll be fun, I reckon,’ he said.

‘Definitely,’ said the woman to my other side. She was a newsreader who must have been in her late forties but looked a lot younger.

‘You’ll be fine,’ she assured me. ‘You actors always do well. Didn’t you have dance training at drama school?’

‘I did,’ I admitted. ‘Until the day I made my dance teacher cry because I was so awful and she chucked me out of the lesson.’

‘Ah,’ said the newsreader.

The rugby player chuckled.

‘Stick with me,’ he said. ‘I’m so rubbish I’ll make anyone look good.’

I smiled widely. I was having such a lovely time my nerves were beginning to recede. All the other contestants seemed very nice. They were a mixture of celebs from all walks of life – I’d met the rugby player and the newsreader, of course, but I’d also said hello to an older actor who’d starred in a rival soap for years and who I knew from various awards ceremonies. He’d greeted me like a long-lost friend, and I realized everyone was just as nervous as I was. There was also a beautiful actress who’d been a model in the sixties, then moved into films and now made documentaries in which she travelled round the world. She was one of my heroes and I was too starstruck to even speak to her. There were a couple of pop stars, an Olympic swimmer who was wearing her gold medal round her neck, and a few TV presenters. Even if I got nowhere in the competition, I thought, it would be nice to meet all these people and find out more about them.

There was a buzz of chatter from the back of the studio and I turned to see the two presenters come in. They were both women and always amazingly, astonishingly glam when I saw them on TV. But today they were both wearing jeans and vest tops. The blonde one – who I knew was called Melissa – had her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and the other one – Vicky – had a blunt, dark, Mary Quant bob and wasn’t wearing any make-up.

‘Oh, God, you all look so beautiful,’ Melissa squealed. ‘Are you all raring to go?’

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 11

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 apologizing 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 recognized 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.