SHELLY
My contract arrives via a private courier the day after we get home. Its conditions are simple. If I drop out before I’m voted out, I pay back the initial five hundred grand. There’s a clause regarding insurance, in case I’m injured while dancing, and one that would make it very hard to sue if there is negative press surrounding my appearances.
The couple who win the show’s famous trophy are contractually obliged to promote next season’s show with their partner. If I can even make it halfway through the competition I’ll be ecstatic. I sign it without overanalysing it, adding my bank details.
Excitement flutters within. Apart from the glamorous makeover, an unlimited supply of glitzy costumes, and experiencing first-hand the elaborate stage production, I’m actually pumped about bringing in an income. Since we got married, Marcus’s always provided for us and it will be nice to actually contribute to our lifestyle.
Since I gained a ton of female Instagram followers, I’ve been approached by loads of companies. Bar a promotion for clothing company to promote their supportive leggings, I’ve never really utilised my position that way. The only reason I agreed to promote the leggings was because they’re brightly coloured and I practically live in them myself.
Maybe I should consider signing with an agency?
The intercom rings and I pad barefoot towards it, assuming it’s the grocery shopping. I always order online and request delivery. Apart from the fact it’s easier, getting recognised as Marcus’s wife meant it took hours to get round the aisles instead of minutes.
The camera linked to the gate displays a mass of approximately fifteen women congregated at the gate. Two of them clutch banners emblazed with “Shelly to Win”. Oh god! Marcus is going to go mental when he arrives home from his run to this scene. Squeezing my eyes shut, I rest my forehead against the front door and rack my brains for an idea.
Luckily for me, a Garda patrol car arrives and moves them all on. One of the neighbours must have reported it; an advantage to living in Clontarf, one of the most exclusive addresses in Dublin. The neighbours mostly have opinions of themselves. The first being they don’t want riff-raff hanging around the place. Which is probably why Marcus and I have never been invited to any of the neighbourhood watch meetings. Like I said, neither of us came from money.
By the time Marcus arrives home, sweating and swearing about the heat, the shopping has been delivered, and I’m busy preparing dinner while the girls play out in the garden.
Marcus rests his athletic physique against the gleaming white granite worktop that’s so bright it’s almost blinding, and chugs down a pint of water without stopping for breath. He removes his top, throws it into the wash basket and returns for another drink. That body, my lips part looking at it.
Unfortunately, he has other things on his mind. Placing the empty glass on the counter, his eyes fall to the contract. ‘What’s this?’ Suspicion rings in his voice.
‘It’s my contract for the show.’ It’s a battle to keep my tone neutral. Disapproval emanates from his every pore. I’m not sure if it was the scene at the airport, the bikini photo, or the list of fellow contestants that set him off. But he encouraged me to do this. He can’t change his mind now, it wouldn’t be fair.
I take a step towards him, leaning against his slick, familiar torso, desperate to feel that unique connection, that’s between us, and us alone. Sweat glistens between his prominent pecs, the raw masculine scent secretes straight to my animated ovaries.
I would have a liked a third child, but I had two difficult labours and a dangerous haemorrhage in the aftermath of both births. Marcus refused to risk a third. Emily came six weeks early, which brought its own complications, the first being that Marcus was on tour in France and blissfully unaware of the situation until it was almost too late. Thankfully he made it. Thankfully we all did; we were lucky. It could have been a very different story.
After a second’s hesitation, Marcus wraps his arms around me, drawing me into the safe haven of his chest and I literally slump into him.
‘Everything’s going to be okay,’ I murmur to myself as much as to him.
‘I don’t like the thought of you signing legally binding documents tying you to a trashy show. What if you do a week and hate it? What if it’s too much, all the hours away from the kids? Look at what happened yesterday and the show hasn’t even started. Hell, what if the pressure breaks us?’ His Adam’s apple bobs against the top of my head and I squeeze him with all my might.
‘Nothing is going to break us. Nothing ever could. I’ll make you proud of me, I promise.’ My hand lowers over his sweaty back to grip the firm, muscular bum that’s almost as famous as his face.
‘I am proud of you. You don’t need to perform a single dance to ensure that.’ His face tilts and his lips press against the top of my head.
‘I know. But this is my chance to do something on my own merit. I’m excited to try. Could you please try and be excited for me too?’
The hot breath of his deep sigh brushes my cheek and he nods.
‘Wish we had a nanny here now.’ My hand remains on my husband’s backside and I squeeze appreciatively.
‘Tonight won’t pass.’ His hazel eyes sparkle with a mischief that I’d like to see more often.
‘Promises, promises.’ I stick my tongue out and turn back to dinner preparations.
‘If you stick that tongue out at me like that again I’ll drag your pert little backside up the stairs right now, nanny or no nanny.’ In four quick strides he’s behind me, nuzzling my neck and pressing himself at my back, leaving me with no doubt of his sincerity.
‘Later. You’ve got yourself a date. You better make the most of me before training starts next week. I could come home so wrecked that you’ll have to sort yourself out for the next ten weeks.’ It was intended as a joke, but there’s nothing funny about the way Marcus tenses behind me.
‘Ten weeks?’ Marcus’s hands drop from my sides.
‘Yes.’ I continue slicing carrots. ‘There’s three weeks training before the seven live shows. It’s ticketed. Come and watch if you like?’ Taking a deep breath, I resolve not to loose my patience, but it’s not easy. One minute he’s fine with it, then he’s not again. I’m getting whiplash here. And I haven’t even mentioned the interviews I’ll be obliged to do in the run up to the live shows to promote them.
‘And what do you mean “next week”?’
