Aaron steps closer to Teddy and leans in conspicuously, as if he’s about to impart a life or death type of secret. ‘I’ve got a sneaking suspicion this is going to be the best series yet, but we’ll let the judges be the ones to determine that, and you of course at home.’ Aaron glances at the biggest camera positioned immediately in front of the stage and flicks his hair seductively. He’s good. He’s really good.
‘Lines won’t open until each couple has danced so do not call or text before then because your vote won’t be counted, but you may still be charged.’
The two of them are dressed in matching tuxedos with turquoise cravats – turquoise, black, white and pink are the show’s logo colours.
‘Now it’s time to meet our judges.’ Teddy motions to the right side of the stage where three former professional dancers enter holding hands. The only female judge, Belinda Bassinger, is a former ballet professional. Freddie O’Flanagan is a former ballroom champion, and the newest judge to the panel is Dean Naughton, a notoriously moody hip-hop street dancer from the States.
‘Welcome. It’s great to have you all back.’ Aaron nods his respect.
Belinda drops Freddie’s hand to wave to the studio audience and blow several air kisses. ‘It’s great to be back.’ She wears a simple ruby-red, floor-length dress, and her lips are painted precisely the same shade. She oozes elegance, the elegance of a real lady, yet something about her posture commands the respect of a general. The crowd clap as they take their seats behind a gleaming white desk with three humungous leather swivelling chairs.
‘So, who wants a taster of what’s to come?’ Teddy does a little hop, skip and jump and clicks his heels together and the audience roar. ‘I can’t hear you.’ He cups his ear and turns to them expectantly. It’s like a bad fucking panto but the crowd are eating out of his hands, wolf-whistling and shrieking louder than any rugby crowd I’ve ever known.
‘That’s better.’ He wiggles his eyebrows at Aaron and says, ‘Shall we get this show on the road, as they say?’
‘Hell, yeah.’ Aaron fist-pumps the air and the band begins to perform the upbeat melody for our first united performance.
Stepping forward in unison, we launch straight into the familiar steps. As a group, we’ve improved, but only marginally. Counting the steps in my head, I focus on the beat. So lost in concentration, I’m barely aware of anyone else beside me. One, two, three, step to the left. Twist, turn, step to the right. Head high, chin up, facing forward. I repeat it over and over in my head until the music subsides and it’s finally is over.
The audience burst into spontaneous applause again. We take a collective bow and head off into the back again. A thrilling surge of adrenaline crusades through my core.
‘You did great.’ Ben squeezes my hand encouragingly.
‘Thanks, so did you.’ He really is a super-talented dancer.
‘Gemma and Sonny are up first. Any minute now...’ Ben nods to the huge screens positioned backstage. Everyone seems to have naturally gravitated to their partners, relieved to have survived the first opening dance.
Gemma and Sonny look well together, her in a smoky grey skintight dress and him in a grey version of Ben’s outfit. They execute their routine exceptionally well, as expected, and the crowd lap them up. I turn from the screen, unable to watch, nerves growing like weeds again. Four couples go in front of us. We’re third from the end. Sylvia assured us it’s a good position. Unless something truly memorable occurs, the audience tend to forget the earlier performances.
When it’s time, one of the stage managers appears, guiding us to our positions. Teddy introduces us, as a close-up photo from the shoot fills the enormous stage screen. It’s been heavily edited but it’s a great image. My smile is bright with laughter from Ben fooling around, much to the photographer’s dismay. It took almost three hours in total, and the photographer still wasn’t one hundred per cent happy with what she captured.
My mind strays to Marcus. Is he watching this with the girls? What does he think? In the photo Ben’s hand rests on top of my shoulder as he stands behind me. Is it too much? Too intimate? It’s hard not to relax into an over-familiar intimacy when dancing together all day every day. I can see how the kissing curse could be a real phenomenon. Not for me, of course.
A video of us training together airs. It shows me standing on Ben’s toes for the twentieth time that day and laughing. He rolls his eyes, but it’s done with affection. Then the video shoots to the dressing room. I’m not visible from behind the frosted screen, but Ben’s ‘Do you want a hand back there?’ can clearly be heard. My response isn’t aired. The video shoots to touching my back, not even an hour earlier, and whispering, ‘don’t worry, I’ve got you.’
It doesn’t look good, but it’s just the way it’s edited. I don’t have time to dwell on it because the band begin to play our song and Ben whips me against him, initiating the dance. Chest to chest, face to face, we move together in pretty good time. It’s not perfect – it was never going to be. Counting in my head, I concentrate once again on my footwork to distract me from the thin layer of slick sweat on Ben’s bicep, the scent of his deliciously familiar aftershave tinged with something way too masculine to be out of a bottle. It’s a good job I’m happily married.
Euphoria sweeps through every single cell in my body as we conclude the dance without any real disaster. Well, apart from the obvious one – whatever chance I had of reassuring my husband there’s nothing untoward going on with Ben is decreasing with each passing second.
