SHELLY
Butterflies swarm and swell, dipping and weaving through my stomach faster than a roller coaster in anticipation of tonight’s first live show. If I thought the mini shows would prepare me, I was mistaken. The atmosphere from the studio audience is charged with an anticipation so palpable that it radiates across the entire stage and back through the wall of the tiny changing room. Expectations are high. Excitement and pressure weigh on me in equal measure, like a pregnant elephant ready to pop.
The scent of sweet perfume, cosmetic products, tan and hairspray lingers heavily in the air. Camera crews circle backstage while more set up out front.
For the first time since we began training, we are afforded the luxury of our own dressing rooms, well almost. Each couple has been assigned one to share, all for added drama of course. Both of us are rigged with microphones – if I so much as fart, it’ll be picked up. A fixed camera points at us from above the doorway, so even with it firmly closed, privacy is only an illusion.
Behind a frosted-glass tri-screen, I wiggle into the costume Lynne selected for me. It’s a twinkling black-mesh bodysuit. The sleeves are long and entirely transparent, as is the rest of it, bar a bra-like insert at the front which has sufficient uplifting and padding to push my already sizeable boobs to space, or at the very least, immediately below Ben’s nose.
The skirt part is marginally thicker, but lifts in a floaty feminine fashion every time I laugh, which I’ve been doing a lot this evening. It’s a nervous thing. Suddenly, Ben has become the most hilarious dancing partner known to woman. We’ve been practising the Argentinian tango for two weeks solid, and in that in entire time I haven’t laughed as much as I have tonight.
‘Do you need a hand back there?’ Ben calls, his tone weighted with innuendo, all for the camera, of course. Everyone knows we’re being voted on our entertainment value, our chemistry, and the kissing curse looms at the forefront of everyone’s mind. As Natalie said, dancing is secondary to all that. Though, with her and Michael both single, there’s nothing curse-like about the new extracurricular activities that occurred after last week’s drinks.
It’s different for Ben and me; if the public don’t connect with us as a couple, we’re gone. But no matter how badly I want to do well on this show, I won’t be associated with a kissing curse, even as a pretence. Having felt what it’s like to have the media speculating on your partner’s fidelity, I would never do anything to add fuel to that.
‘No I don’t, you cheeky bollocks.’ I’m pretty sure swearing is allowed on national television at nine o’clock, and if it’s not, even better. They’ll have less of my speech to manipulate.
His deep rumbling laugh echoes round the small room. My en-suite at home is twice the size of this place. I sigh, thinking about home. It’s been a rough week. Marcus has been gone a lot with this new project the lads are undertaking. It’s not exactly how I imagined his retirement would begin, but I suppose he didn’t image me swanning off to do something like this. He hasn’t been himself for months. I’m beginning to wonder if coming on this show has worsened his state of mind. He’s never pushed me away like this before. I wish he’d talk to me.
It’s not that I don’t approve of his charitable intentions, it’s just at this stage in our life I’d rather hand over the money to someone else and have my husband home with me. One glance down at my outfit reminds me I’ve got a cheek! Though dancing doesn’t require investing hundreds of thousands upfront.
I haven’t tried to initiate any intimacy since my last attempt. Another rejection would be unbearable.
Tentatively stepping out from behind the screen, I glance from the floor to the fixed camera above the closed door, anywhere but at Ben. A deep sense of shyness washes over me. I’m not sure why. I’m never shy. Perhaps it’s the prospect of making a first-class prat out of myself on national television.
A low whistle from Ben permeates the air between us. ‘Wow.’
Eventually, I muster enough courage to raise my eyes to his, but not before I get a glimpse of his own seductive costume. Black, tight trousers hug his sinewy legs, a matching waistcoat does a poor job of concealing a strong muscular chest. Obviously he has no shirt below the waistcoat, this isSexy Come Dancing,after all. With his arms folded across his front, his biceps practically pop from under his darksun-kissedskin. The two of us are wearing enough tan to convince the world we’re both Spanish.
‘You don’t look too bad yourself, I suppose.’ My tone’s deliberately nonchalant.
Ben’s eyes rake over my costume. ‘You know that costume reminds me of that awards night in The Marker Hotel, all those years ago.’ His finger thrums contemplatively against his lips.
My hands fall over the coarse material of my outfit as I realise with heart-quickening clarity he’s right. He’s referring tothat night. The one I’d almost forgotten about until recently. The one I’ve been trying to convince myself didn’t really happen. That he was too drunk to know what he was doing. But if he remembers I had a black-mesh dress on, he almost certainly remembers… I push it away again, refusing to let my mind go there.
Layla bursts into the room, weighed down with a tool belt laden with about thirty make-up brushes. Behind her, her assistant wheels in a trolley full of what appears to be every cosmetic ever invented. I’m grateful for the interruption as the significance of Ben’s comment rattles through me.
He’s clearly not as grateful for the interruption. His tone is sharp, ‘We’re done. You were here thirty minutes ago.’
‘Exactly! Thirty minutes is a lot of time to sweat off make-up.’ Layla takes no prisoners when it comes to making a contestant look their best.
Teddy’s voice rumbles through my ear piece, ‘Two minute warning, contestants.’
From the way Ben inhales deeply, his ear piece delivered the same warning. Layla sprays my loose-curled locks with hairspray once more and I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut to avoid the fumes. She dabs Ben with another dusting of something as a knock at our door signifies time. Bile rises within and my jelly-like legs are frozen to the spot. I can barely breathe, let alone swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth.
‘It’s time.’ Teddy’s waiting outside. The audience are waiting. Ben’s waiting. I can’t fucking move. Nerves have me rooted to the spot.
‘You’ll knock them dead.’ Layla offers a heart-warming smile and two thumbs up.
A warm hand rests on the base of my spine and hot reassuring breath brushes my ear. ‘It’s ok. I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.’ Turning to my partner, my eyes lock firmly with his in an unspoken agreement. We’re in this together. He offers a strong, supportive arm to link onto. I grip onto it as though it’s a shiny red life raft in a sea of chaos, my only hope of survival, because right this second it is.
It’s an effort to put one foot in front of the other to reach the stage but I manage, just about. This kind of exposure is on another level. Heat from the spotlights is hotter than the Vilamoura midday sun in the middle of August.
The audience shriek a deafening chant as we make our way to the edge of the stage with the other contestants. The lighting’s so low we’re almost in darkness. I stumble up the first step, but Ben catches me.
Lining up against the back of the stage, the same way we practiced in rehearsals, the studio band begin to play the show’s familiar theme song. The lighting is slowly, dramatically turned up with all spotlights trained on us. At the music’s crescendo, silver sparkling glitter bursts from a gigantic bomb above our heads, dusting us from head to toe and covering the stage in a floor of silver sand. The audience go absolutely wild, clapping, cheering and whistling. Aaron and Teddy take centre stage.
‘Welcome to the third season ofSexy Come Dancing,’ Teddy’s voice oozes like warm drizzling honey. ‘I’m Teddy O’Hara, this is Aaron Wright, and here are this year’s fabulous contestants.’ The audience burst into life again. ‘Boy, do we have a series for you! Just look at the line-up.’ He gestures in our direction, eyes travelling over us, appraising us like horses before a race.
