SHELLY
Because of the unusual twist of events in last week’s semi-final, none of us got voted off. Marcus and I received a standing ovation. The audience aggressively demanded an encore, which Ava’s injury miraculously managed to recover for. She paired up with Ben beside us, while Gemma and Sonny spun and twirled in an elaborate freestyle waltz next to us. Even the judges rose from their throne-like seats to partake in the Marcus-induced madness.
Dean made a beeline for Maddy, the two Americans shaking their long, lithe limbs together. Slick Rick and Sylvia jumped on the bandwagon from backstage, eclipsing us all with their polished moves. The show turned into something similar to the final scene inDirty Dancingright after Patrick Swayze demanded nobody put baby in the corner.
The semi-final received the highest rating of any live broadcast this decade. My Instagram blew up overnight. I went from five hundred and twenty thousand followers, to 1.5 million. Most of them voicing the same demand: Marcus and I be paired together for the final show. The producers and the official RTE socials must have come under the same pressure, if not more, because by some mad twist of fate, they’ve decided that Marcus and I will indeed be paired up for the final.
Ben’s been paired with Ava, much to his initial and very vocal dismay. It was nothing that an extra five hundred grand, and the promise his clothing brand could be next season’s show sponsor couldn’t fix.
With Ben and me separated, both paired with utter novices, Gemma and Sonny are the clear favourites to win the competition. And I am exceptionally comfortable with that, more than ready to go home.
After a week of rehearsals by day, and mad passionate make-up sex by night, tonight is the final ofSexy Come Dancing. The bronze, three foot tall, infamous trophy sits on its own extravagant display table, ready to be presented by last season’s winning couple, Barry Hartley, the boxer that stripped bollock naked, and his soap star partner.
It seems a little unfair that Marcus and Ava have been catapulted into a final without having to put in the weeks of training, or survive a single dance-off, but I’ve finally accepted that the dancing definitely comes second to the drama. Marcus was right all those weeks ago. The public love this show purely because of the associated celebrity scandal. We are living proof of that fact.
‘Are you ready?’ Marcus takes my hand, leading me towards the stage.
‘I can’t believe you’re here. That you agreed to do this.’ It took masses for him to come on last week, let alone two weeks running.
A wolf-like grin emerges on his clean-shaved face. ‘No point doing half a job. I’m already a laughing stock, so what’s a couple more performances?’
‘You’re not a laughing stock.’ My rough diamond has become one of the most sought-after males in the country overnight.
It’s true. The public love nothing more than a swoon-worthy romance, and what’s more romantic than winning your wife back on national television? The offers have been piling in all week: interviews, TV appearances, his and hers aftershave adverts, a joint presenting slot on a popular evening celebrity gossip show. Arthur rang to confirm Marcus has now been offered a place onA League of Their Own. The book deal is back on, with various publishing houses vying for the opportunity now.
We declined it all in favour of a quiet life with the girls, and Marcus’s role at the new rugby academy. We don’t need the money, and we definitely don’t need the stress of being in the spotlight.
Tonight, I’m under no illusion we have a hope in hell of winning this show. If I wanted to win, I should have stuck with Ben, whose footwork, posture and rhythm are far superior. But if losing this competition means winning in my marriage, that’s exactly what I’ve chosen. Forsake all others, including that trophy! It would look out of place in our modern new build – that’s what I keep telling myself, anyway!
Each couple has been tasked with two dances and with it being the final, there are a whole rake of celebrities making guest appearances tonight, probably lured by the Champagne Glitter Ball set to take place straight after in an exclusive Dublin venue.
Our first dance is a simple waltz, but for Marcus, there’s nothing simple about it. Sylvia tried to incorporate as many of the same steps as our wedding dance as we could possibly get away with, in the hope that we’d be forgiven if the audience noticed, which either they don’t, or they simply don’t mind.
Our second and final dance is the American Smooth. We had a great laugh about it in training due to the less than smooth arrival of Marcus’s American sister, but it’s a good dance for us. Sylvia worked hard with us this week, and the song we picked, ‘Sweet Caroline’, is one that we both love from back in the day.
As the band begin, Marcus and I grip onto each other for dear life. If he’s nervous, he hides it well under his enormous grin. The moment is bittersweet for me. I’m positive it will be my last dance on this show. The end of a short but very eventful era. And despite all the complications it brought, I’m so glad I agreed to do it.
It forced us to confront some issues in our marriage that I hadn’t realised were there, like my lingering trust hang-ups and Marcus’s feelings of inadequacy since he retired. A little time apart demonstrated why we are so much better together. Highlighted what’s truly important in this life.
As the words of Neil Diamond’s famous song ring out, about times never being so good, I can’t help but agree. With the club restoration and the new rugby academy underway, Marcus has found his stride again (everywhere apart from the dance floor, I note, as he stands on my toes for the third time in under thirty seconds.) And I’m ready to get back to doing what I do best, being a wife and mother, and taking random but exquisite photos for my Instagram feed. I’ve also agreed to teach Irish dancing lessons at the club, twice a week. I’ll manage two hours a week away from the girls if I have to, but I’m really hoping to bring them with me. Marcus isn’t the only one inspired to give something back.
Our American Smooth is messy, ill-timed and amateur, but when it comes to a liberating end and glitter cascades from the ceiling, Marcus sweeps me into his arms, spinning me with an ecstatic sense of relief that it’s finally over. We can do no more. The judges don’t even get a say this week. It’s all down to the public now.
Backstage, the champagne is flowing already. The professional dance teachers are on the stage, showing us all up, shaking what their mama gave them, while the final votes are cast.
Ava approaches Marcus and me, with Ben on her tail.
‘I always thought you’d be the one to watch in this competition, Shelly.’ She clinks her champagne flute against mine.
‘You two might be crowned the winners yet, you’ve a strong partner there.’ I nod towards Ben, whose fingers brush the tip of his nose while he sniffs. Looks like he’s started to party in his own preferred way already.
We’d have never made a good match, not in a million years. I hate drugs. Unable to comprehend the need to get artificially high, when life offers so many natural ones.
Ava’s hand rests on the back of my arm as she leans in to murmur into my ear, ‘Not nearly as strong asyourpartner.’ Her eyes rake over Marcus like he’s a sticky toffee pudding straight out of the oven. ‘It took balls to approach me last week like he did. He had a plan, and he was going to execute it with or without my help. You’re a lucky woman.’
She’s right.
‘I’m the lucky one,’ Marcus says, raising his glass in toast.
