SHELLY
The contract stipulated the initial meet and greet was a brunch at The Merrion Hotel for the first day. I’m not sure why. Perhaps a PR stunt? Or maybe to vet us in social situations before we are publicly working for them? Who knows.
The Merrion is a majestic Georgian building in the heart of Dublin city. Its outdoor water feature is long and slim and surrounded by tables and chairs for patrons to sit and bask in the sun by.
Taking a lungful of air, I blow out through my nose slowly and step into the huge reception area. I don’t get as far as the desk before I’m whisked away by a familiar man in a lilac suit that leaves nothing to the imagination.
‘Shelly darling, I’m the co-production manager and presenter, Teddy O’Hara. Come with me. The other contestants are getting acquainted in the drawing room. We thought it would be nice to give you a formal rundown of the show’s itinerary and allow you all to meet without the pressure of learning the dances straight away.’ His high-pitched tone is a borderline squeal, exactly as it sounds on TV.
He guides me by the elbow through a long wide corridor towards a door on the left, maintaining a steady stream of excited chatter. ‘My money’s on you, Shelly, you’re the underdog as far as I’m concerned. I know there were some hurtful comments from Gemma Sloane regarding your previous dancing history, but let’s be honest, we all know this show has nothing to do with Irish dancing.’
He barely pauses for air. ‘My old mother, god rest her soul, she’s dead ten years, she always used to say if you could keep up with Michael Flatley you’d have to have stamina. While you clearly don’t have any “relevant” experience, you’ve obviously got stamina – you must have to keep up with that husband of yours.’ Teddy nudges me and shoots a saucy wink. I can’t help but snigger.
‘And although you are one of our older contestants, this year I think it might give you an edge. A certain maturity.’
I try to ignore the nerve he hit by mentioning my age. I’m well aware I’m the wrong side of thirty, but his comment stabs my sensitive spot, a secret insecurity that I’ve never even shared with Marcus.
It’s ok for men, they get better with age. Look at Richard Gere, George Clooney and Brad Pitt. Women on the other hand, they aren’t so lucky. Look how many of them get traded in for younger models. My own mother included. She got her own back in the end, snagging a man half her age, but still.
The heartache and humiliation would be cruel.
Teddy continues, apparently oblivious to the wound he rubbed salt into.
He only stops talking when we reach a huge cream wooden door.
‘Now, remember, this show is a competition. So give it everything you’ve got, girl. When the live shows actually start, dance every dance like it’s your last, because you never know when it might be.’ With that final parting advice Teddy turns on his shiny polished heels and stalks back up the corridor, leaving me to wonder what the fuck just happened.
Mature in years I might be, huh. Teddy clearly never saw me screaming at the side of the pitch. He obviously didn’t get the memo that I have an even bigger mouth than my husband.
My hand pauses on the gleaming chrome handle as I attempt to compose myself. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. To step out from behind Marcus’s shadow and experience the glitz and glamour of the bright lights. A temporary reprieve from the mundane usual routine.
The door flies open from the inside and I’m face to face with a scantily clad Gemma Sloane. Her breasts are squeezed so high into a satin corset that I can barely see her neck. I thought we’d be saving the costumes for the live shows, but clearly she has other ideas.
‘Gemma. It’s nice to meet you.’ I extend a hand but she doesn’t take it.
‘I would say the same, but I’m still making my mind up.’ Her long slim nose pinches into a sneer. ‘I’m still not entirely convinced you’re the right fit for this show. You’re ten years older than most of us, and not really famous. Unless you count who you’re shagging – in which case you’d still fall short. By all accounts, your husband is last year’s news. Still, I can’t see you lasting long. If you haven’t run out of old lady steam by the first show, you’ll be voted off, especially if that’s what you consider appropriate attire for the country’s sexiest show.’ Narrow dark eyes run over my black Spanx leggings and neon-yellow off-the-shoulder top distastefully before she marches up the corridor, bellowing Teddy’s name as though he were her own personal servant.
Wow. I heard she was a diva but it’s worse than being back in the playground again. And that was hard enough to get through the first time. I’m not sure if I’m more insulted by the second ageist remark I received in under a minute, or the fact that she called my husband last year’s news.
Glancing down at the outfit I picked, I suddenly feel like I’d be better fitted to an eighties tribute band than where I am now. I was trying to be practical. I hadn’t realised it was a fashion show – not at this stage of the competition at least. A hard lump forms in my throat, the hot sting of unshed tears burns my eyes and the excited butterflies that previously soared in my stomach have long since flown leaving an emptiness inside.
What was I thinking coming here? Gemma’s right. Maybe I am too old. I’m not famous in my own right. I’m nobody, nothing. I should have stayed at home and stuck to what I’m good at: raising my daughters. Pausing in the doorway like a rabbit in the headlights, I glance from the closing door, to Gemma’s retreating figure, then back to the doorway.
‘Are you coming in?’ a friendly voice asks from behind the doorway that has begun to open again. Aisling Duffy stands before me, her familiar face alight with a smile that could light Blackpool.
‘I’m not actually sure anymore.’ My voice wobbles, betraying my emotional state and Aisling’s smile fades to a frown.
‘It’s Shelly Williams, isn’t it?’ She sticks out a slim pale hand to take mine and shakes it with a firmness she doesn’t look capable of. I nod and barely return the motion.
‘I’m Aisling. It’s such a pleasure to meet you. I follow your Instagram and love seeing your updates. You are so relatable. The public are going to love you!’
And just like that, my heart swells in my chest and the lip I’m nervously chewing transforms into a huge grin. Perhaps there’s a sliver of hope; I might fit in after all.
‘Tell me, was it Vilamoura you just got back from? There’s a specialist ice cream parlour on the marina there. The rum and raisin ice cream is to die for.’
‘Yes, I know the one! And you’re right, the rum and raisin is to die for.’ Relief swarms in my chest as I glance at my new-found friend. Her warm welcome and genuine kindness instils enough confidence for me to step into the drawing room.
For a second I’d reverted to the poor girl from Bluebell, whose father’s in prison and whose mother barely uttered two words.
