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.
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