Shimmer

‘While I’m doing this, why don’t you go and familiarise yourself with the professionals? We don’t want any name muddles, people being directed to the wrong dressing room, incorrect names on cue cards et cetera.’

I could barely believe this was my job, and scuttled off to the enormous planning board at the other end of the production office, with Matt by my side. On the wall was an enormous collage of all of the professionals and their celebrity partners. Pinned to them were names, swatches of fabric, small lengths of beading and ribbon, images of couture dresses cut from fashion magazines and some newspaper cuttings from stories that had already run about the show. It was part mood board, part reference point and part planner. There was a whiteboard next to it with a table containing the first few weeks of allocated dance styles.

I gazed up at the faces on the collage. Some were familiar, but others were completely unknown to me. It was disconcerting to see a photograph of the notorious female politician beaming down from between an elegant snapshot of Erin Boag and a cute image of Vincent Simone grinning into the camera. There was an instantly recognisable shot of one of the actresses, wearing a pair of dungarees, one of the rap star baring his shiny teeth, and a gorgeous paparazzi image of Flavia Cacace and Kristina Rihanoff walking along a pavement in tracksuit bottoms, hoodies and sheepskin boots chatting to each other. The entire wall was mesmerising, and I found myself staring.

My eyes drifted to the little corner with a handful of new faces. One was marked Artem Chigvintstev, one Robin Windsor and one Lars, but one of the names was obscured by a photograph of the feisty comedian wearing a pair of spectacles on the end of her nose, holding a textbook. I would never have thought that Artem and Robin, with their rugged features, were dancers. And Lars? Well, the picture of Lars just looked a bit like images I had seen in schoolbooks of Thor. Unmistakably Scandinavian, he had dark blond hair, tanned skin and ridiculously dark brown eyes that turned down on the outside corners. He was wearing a dinner jacket in the image, but there was little doubt that he was a big, sturdy guy. All in all, he was a confusing combination of hot Viking and adorable Andrex puppy. And yet, bizarrely, he seemed strangely familiar. I let out a deep sigh, and as I did I caught Matt looking at me. Hands on hips, one eyebrow raised, head tilted to one side, he was staring at me, willing me to drag my eyes from the board.

‘Tough gig, familiarising yourself with the new male professionals, hmm?’

‘Ha! You can talk. I’ve seen the way you look at pictures of Ola. You practically have her name scribbled on your pencil case.’

Good save. I wish I could have high-fived myself.

‘Oh come on, it’s Ola. Everyone’s in love with her. It barely counts!’

He had a point.

‘Well anyway, who are these guys? Where have they all come from?’ I pointed up at the crop of unfamiliar faces on the board.

Matt grabbed my arm and pulled it down to my side again. ‘How do you not know this?’ he hissed. ‘Keep your voice down or Chloe will kill you.’

I remembered with horror that the launch show had taken place before I had got the job, but after I had applied for it. I’d been so nervous about my application that I couldn’t bear to watch it, so I’d escaped to the cinema and only returned home hours later once the broadcast was over. The holes in my knowledge were suddenly revealing themselves. The first half of the week had been all about technicalities, but now the sudden realisation was dawning that real people were about to start turning up on the studio floor.

‘Oh man, I’m in trouble. Who are they all?’

‘Artem is from LA, via Russia and he’s worked in the States a lot. He looks considerably tougher than he actually is. Robin looks more exotic than he actually is – he grew up just outside of Ipswich. Jared is all about the boyband look – he’s toured with Glee and was in High School Musical. Then there’s Lars. He’s a bit of a wildcard. He’s Swedish, and he’s dancing with Kelly Bracken. Apparently he’s very quiet but very charming. And he’s pretty much Scandinavia’s biggest dance star.’

‘Wow, lucky Kelly.’

‘She could do with a bit of cheering up,’ he replied, with a chuckle.

I was thrilled to have found someone to exchange gossip with. Kelly had famously just turned thirty, and was busy filming her final scenes in the West Country soap, The Valley. She had been a lead for ten years, and had become something of a household name while dating her dashing co-star Jeremy Norman-Knott. But despite his reputation as one of the most charming men in TV, he had recently been up to no good with the star of a cheesy reality show. There had been accents. There had been outfits. And there had been a disloyal friend with a phone camera.

No one had come out of the situation well, not even Kelly, who had done a series of daytime TV interviews insisting, ‘I’m fine. No really, I’m absolutely fine.’ For all her tossing her glossy hair extensions over her shoulder she looked more than a little shaken up. She had spoken a little too freely to some of the weekly magazines about how perfect and impenetrable her relationship with Jeremy was, only to find herself regretting her earlier confidence as the full horror of his infidelity revealed itself. She was now a decade older than a lot of the girls she was up against for her next role, still broken-hearted and carrying the weight of a woman who had spent a lot of time reacquainting herself with her Slanket, her Friends DVD box set and a freezer full of Ben & Jerry’s. If anyone needed a hot Scandinavian to throw them around the dance floor in front of a gobsmacked nation, it was Kelly Bracken. And I was delighted that Matt had realised that.

‘You are not kidding,’ I replied. ‘I hope she turns up looking sensational and shows us what she’s really made of.’

‘Okaaaaay,’ said Matt. ‘Sounds like somebody’s a little over-invested.’

‘Oh, come on,’ I said. ‘I thought you loved the show as much as I did.’

‘Well, yeah, I love the show. Because I love working on live TV, and on something with such a big audience. But my real dream is to work in news and documentaries, so it’s not as if I really care about every single dance.’

‘Oh.’ My voice was quieter than it had been all week. ‘I suppose I thought it was a big deal to you too. I feel a bit of an idiot for letting you know how much I love it now.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘It’s all great fun, but for me just not the dream, you know? I don’t really care about dancing. I don’t dance at parties or weddings – even the old folk show me up. It’s humiliating. And I can barely tell who’s doing well or not out there on the studio floor, so I tend to zone out and see it as just work. I like being part of the team that gets the right shot: that’s where the drama lies for me.’

‘But the disco balls? You gave me such an amazing welcome.’

‘Oh well, how could I not have done that for you when you were standing there all starry-eyed with Chloe slowly boring you to tears? You deserved to see it at its best on your first day.’

I was still a little disappointed by Matt’s confession but touched that he had made such an effort.

Tension continued to rise for the rest of the day. I was rushed off my feet, taking tapes of the dancers in rehearsal from the production office to the studio floor and back. When I wasn’t doing that, I was ferrying cups of tea and coffee, bottles of water and sandwiches to the production team. It was at lunchtime that I made my first trip to the production gallery, the hub of the operation, with its wall of monitors that gave a spectacular view of the set and the dance floor itself. The gallery faced the famous staircase and was positioned directly above the undecorated area of the set, where I would be standing during the show.

Natasha, the director, was in there with her team, looking down through the glass windows like the pilot of a spectacularly sparkly airplane. I was terrified about entering the room, knowing full well that some of the most important people on the Strictly team would be in there, including my own boss. The tension in there would be thick like smog. When I reached the door I carefully put down the tray of teas and coffees I had been asked to take them, then knocked a couple of times.

As I was standing there, Chloe came rushing out of the door, nearly tipping the drinks over.

‘Were you knocking?’

‘Yes, I didn’t want to disturb, or, um, come in during something important or confidential.’

‘Are you telling me that you didn’t know that the main production gallery door would be sound proofed?’

I suppose, I was really … The thing is, I did know that the door would be sound proofed – absolutely every part of a studio is. But in my anxiety to please everyone, and stay as unobtrusive yet helpful as possible, I had, well, I had forgotten. I was an absolute idiot.

‘Yes, of course I knew,’ I just about managed to stammer. ‘But I just wanted to make sure.’

‘Riiiight, well you don’t need to.’ Chloe made a big show of holding the door open for me and calling ‘Drinks coming through!’ as I entered the gallery. ‘And don’t put them down anywhere near the equipment. Liquid is lethal around here.’

My cheeks were burning even though no one else had seen our little interaction.

Things became even more tense by Friday. People had started to use fewer words per sentence, and replaced the lost verbs with cups of coffee. And – finally – the celebrities and dancers had started to populate the studio floor. Almost all afternoon was spent on the band rehearsal, which turned out to be the biggest test so far of my ability to remain calm and collected. There were several things that tampered with this aforementioned professionalism.

For starters, it was the first time I had seen any of the celebrities. Sure, I had seen celebrities before – my mum had taken Natalie and me to see countless dance shows in the West End when we were younger. Musicals had been my obsession – every birthday and Christmas the trip to London had been my biggest treat. I had done work experience on some low-rent cable channels, which had seen Big Brother contestants from years gone by lapping up the final remnants of their fifteen minutes of fame by presenting obscure game shows.

But these were Strictly celebs: a unique mixture of genuine icons, national treasures and sports legends … all of them doing something that was utterly new to them. It was that rarest of rare things – nervous celebrities, doing their best, but out of their comfort zone. I was transfixed.

The most common reaction to seeing a celebrity in real life is to compare them to the image you have been carrying around in your mind. It’s rarely an accurate image, but a kind of composite of your favourite of their screen appearances, the worst paparazzi shots you’ve ever seen of them, and perhaps a photo or two that you once snipped out of a magazine because you wanted hair, boots or a boyfriend like them. That picture will have been pinned to your cubicle at work, or carried around in your wallet until it’s all tatty. But the image is now ingrained and you’re left with a semi-false impression of what they actually look like. This is why the first thing that mere mortals say to celebrities is rarely: ‘Hello there. It is a pleasure to meet you. I am a great admirer of both your work and your style, and I look forward to many years of friendship with you.’ Instead, they might say: ‘Oh. Emm. Gee! You are so much taller in real life!’ or ‘Woah, you’re actually REALLY good looking!’

Like I said, it can be a self-respect Bermuda Triangle. Consequently, I was calm to the point of off-hand when I met the first batch of celebs. Matt and I were on another one of our endless caffeine runs, when the show’s director asked us to go down to the studio floor and see if anyone else wanted drinks. We left the production gallery and wandered sheepishly onto the edge of the dance floor.

‘Hi guys,’ said Matt. His gait and his lolloping arms betrayed no shred of nerves as he approached those waiting to dance. A few of them were sitting on the golden audience chairs between the band area and the judges’ desk. Everyone was pretending not to be doing it, but they were all looking at each other, trying to size up the competition. These weren’t the confident gods and goddesses I was used to seeing on screen. These were real people, and they looked nervous. Flavia and Kristina were using the backs of a couple of chairs for some hamstring stretches. Despite the tension in the air, they looked fabulous, in tight leotards and stockings with gold high heels. I caught myself tugging at my own clothes, trying to make sure my imperfections weren’t on display anywhere near them. Meanwhile, one of the celebrities, an ex-footballer who I remember my dad worshipping all through my childhood, was standing at the edge of the floor, running through steps in his head and counting furiously under his breath.

‘Hey,’ said Flavia, looking up at Matt.

‘Can we get you any drinks? Water, tea, coffee, whatever?’ he asked.

‘Yes, please.’ She looked over her shoulder at the others. ‘Guys? Drinks?’

Moments later I was jotting down the list of drinks, while not – I repeat NOT – standing there slack-jawed saying, ‘But Flavia, you’re tiny, so petite and beautiful!’ or ‘Oh wow, Brett, you sooo don’t look as tall in real life as you do on that soap. What are the sets made of? Dolls’ houses?’

By the time I returned from the canteen with Matt, each of us laden with a wobbling tray, the band rehearsal was well underway. It was no longer just the celebrities and their dancers standing around – the band were now in position and rehearsing the music with the dancers for the first time.

It had genuinely never occurred to me how important the music was to the show until that moment. But when I put down my tray and looked up to see Kristina deep in conversation with Gnasher, urgently marking out the beats with her fist in her palm, I realised that the relationship between the band’s performance and the dancers’ was totally co-dependent. A duff note could mean a duff step, and vice versa.

In the meantime, Kristina’s partner, a gregarious musician who’d once had a reputation as a bad boy and was now beloved of housewives (including my mum) up and down the country, was clowning around with the others gathered at the side of the stage. Confidently performing faux-elaborate moves while adding a little human beat box to the amusement of the gathered crowd, he had everyone eating out of the palm of his hand. Suddenly, Kristina clapped her hands and summoned him to the dance floor.