Читать книгу Shimmer - Amanda Roberts - Страница 5

Prologue

The first time I walked onto the dance floor, I had to pretend I wasn’t gawping. My eyes must have been spinning like disco balls as I tried to take it all in. I gripped the clipboard I had just been handed as tightly as I could, in the desperate hope that this might keep me calm. Chloe, my new colleague, walked straight across the dance floor as if it were nothing more than a studio, and I trotted along behind her, trying to keep my pulse rate – and my eyes – down.

Nothing could stop me from inhaling the atmosphere though. The springiness of the floor, the way that the audience chairs were all neatly fastened together to keep them in perfect straight lines, the sweeping staircases glistening, despite the relative darkness of the studio. But it was the smell that did it: the unmistakable theatrical smell that I had forgotten existed. It brought back memories of the school plays I’d taken part in as a kid. And here it was again. The set was drenched in it. I took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on what I was being told.

‘This is where you’ll stand during the show,’ Chloe said, pointing up at the only undecorated area on the set. I gasped. It was the least sparkly spot; in fact it was pretty much bare. Directly facing the staircase, it was the one angle that I had never seen on television. But it was unquestionably the one with the best view. And now it was my view. I grinned, then quickly composed myself, attempting to look as serious and efficient as possible.

‘I see,’ I replied, my brow faux-furrowed. I added a slow nod for emphasis.

Chloe was talking so fast she barely seemed to draw breath, and yet she seemed entirely calm. I knew that she had worked on the show for a couple of years, but I was mystified as to how she was so immune to the magic of it all. The headset she was wearing was the only real clue to her role – without it she could have been a visiting student. She was wearing a pair of baggy corduroy jeans, a V-neck T-shirt and a brightly coloured hooded top. With, of course, a pair of pink Converse trainers. Her face was entirely free from make-up and she had tied her fair hair back into a scruffy ponytail. She looked as if she might have once been capable of being a right laugh, but had been working too hard, taking everything a bit too seriously, for too long. I imagined she was only about thirty, but she had an ultra-responsible side to her, which would win out every time anyone suggested something as avant-garde as ‘having some fun’.

She was dressed as comfortably as someone who did most of their job on their feet needed to be, and yet she didn’t actually look that comfortable in her own skin. Mind you, nor was I. It had become apparent within moments of arriving that I was hopelessly over-dressed for the role of a production runner: a floral patterned tea dress, expensive tights and a pair of patent leather ballerinas. Overcompensating for my nerves had not resulted in a good look. My attempts to coordinate ‘showing respect for the job’ (by wearing a frock) with ‘practicality’ (by wearing flat shoes) had left me looking like I was Chloe’s boss, not the other way around. Chloe seemed unconcerned though. She had barely glanced at what I was wearing, so great was her devotion to her holy trio of clipboard, headphones and BlackBerry. She continued to fire facts and details at me like a tennis-ball machine. I was frantically scribbling down what I could when a voice from the other end of the stage bellowed, ‘Hello ladies! Fancy seeing you here …’

I turned round to see someone galloping down the stage stairs towards us. He too was dressed rather like a student: crumpled jeans, lumberjack boots and a faded dark grey sweatshirt. He had neat dark blond hair and was good-looking in a cuddly, soft-cheeked way.

‘Aha, here you are, Matt’ said Chloe as he approached.

He was gripping a polystyrene cup in his left hand and immediately extended his free hand towards me. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m Matt. I’m going to be working alongside you this series.’

‘Yes, Matt is a fellow AP. Just been promoted to Assistant Producer.’

We shook hands.

‘Great, lovely to meet you,’ I replied. His hand was warm, and his eyes had a twinkle that made me think he wouldn’t be unwelcome in a boy band. He blew onto the steam coming off the top of the cup.

‘What do you think?’ he asked.

‘Of the set?’

‘Of course the set! Not bad is it? Not bad …’

‘Not bad, it’s incredible!’ I replied, relieved to finally find someone I could express a smidgen of my excitement to. Matt grinned.

‘Yup, it’s pretty special. For what it is.’

Chloe was frowning down at her BlackBerry. She seemed to have forgotten we were there.

‘I can’t believe I’m actually here,’ I continued. ‘It seems so much smaller than on TV. But still so … magical.’

‘But have you seen the—?’ he stopped mid-sentence. ‘Hold on. Just wait there.’ Matt darted off between a row of gold audience chairs and disappeared behind the wooden walls of the set. I looked around awkwardly as Chloe tapped away at her BlackBerry.

‘LOOK UP!’ Matt’s voice boomed out from behind the walls. I did as I was told. Three huge disco balls were suspended from the ceiling, dwarfing the hundreds of TV lights that were also dangling from the metallic ropes above. Then, slowly, they began to turn. At first it was a little unnerving. The momentum that their slow turning generated made it seem as if it were the rest of the set that was moving, not them. The effect was magical. They were properly spinning now, casting their sparkly chinks of light across everything beneath them. Their movement made me imagine I was dancing myself, as I remembered all the nights I had got myself to sleep by pretending I was waltzing across a gleaming ballroom floor.

Then, just as suddenly, they stopped. I caught sight of Matt waving through a glass pane high above the stage, above the area I’d be standing in during the performances. He seemed to have gone up to the lighting gallery especially to put on this little show for me. With a quick smile he disappeared from view, then reappeared on the ballroom floor a minute later.

‘Just a little something I like to do for the newcomers.’ His twinkly eyes were even twinklier with mischief, and he gave me a little bow.

‘Wow, thank you. Seeing that was pretty much the only reason I wanted to work here. I think I’ve peaked. I should probably just leave now.’

I’m not quite sure where the courage for such banter had come from. I seemed to have forgotten all about Chloe, who had by now taken a seat in the front row and was focussed entirely on her emails. She looked up sharply.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said, staring suspiciously at the two of us. ‘Come along, Amanda. We’ve got paperwork to do. Matt – we’ll meet you at reception in fifteen. We have to collect Amanda’s pass anyway.’

She continued her brusque walk across the set, pointing out cables of different lengths on the floor behind the audience chairs, careful to make sure that I stepped, rather than tripped, over them. I just about had time to look over my shoulder and wave a quick goodbye to Matt as I trotted off behind her. I was thrilled that I had found someone who seemed as enthusiastic about the job as I was, despite Chloe’s apparent attempts to make everything seem as tedious as possible. I followed her along seemingly endless corridors barely absorbing any of what she was saying, as she talked me through the basics of my new job. Deep down I was really only thinking one thing: I’m here. I’m at Strictly Come Dancing. I’ve made it.

My heart was still racing by the time we got back to BBC TV Centre’s imposing reception area. I had always dreamt of working in live TV but this was the first time I had really grasped how much responsibility it entailed. It had all seemed rather abstract before, when I was just the work experience girl. There was so much to remember. And that wasn’t including the names, the labyrinthine corridors of BBC TV centre and the strange unspoken hierarchy that seemed to exist among senior and junior members of the team. Matt had seemed so friendly and approachable, but Chloe was significantly more frosty, despite her relaxed-looking fashion choices.

I glanced up at the huge news ticker running across the glass doorways. There were people milling around reception, generally looking busy, clutching cups of coffee and scanning the faces of those who were seated, trying to work out who their next meeting was with. A small queue had formed at the security desk and it seemed like most people were waiting for their visitor passes to be put together. I spotted Matt at the front of the queue talking to one of the security team. He turned around and smiled at us, holding out a BBC pass with a name and face on it. Mine. ‘Welcome to Strictly,’ he said. ‘You’re one of the family now.’ One of the family …

I smiled back and put the pass around my neck. I felt like a Jim’ll Fix It guest, glowing with excitement at having been granted my special wish. Except instead of a Jim’ll Fix It badge, I had a BBC pass. Same difference, as far as I was concerned. Mindful that I should perhaps seem like a glacial model of broadcasting efficiency, I maintained a dignified expression. It lasted approximately three seconds, before I yelped ‘Yeay!!!’ Matt winked at me. Chloe looked as if she were doing her best not to roll her eyes.

‘Come on then. We’d better get to the office,’ she said.

The rest of the day was a blur of information, responsibilities and titles that I had no hope of remembering for at least a couple of weeks. I was still buzzing from the set visit, so I pushed any anxieties about my ability to actually do the job to the back of my mind and got on with taking notes on almost everything Chloe said. Matt continued to pop up through the day, asking if he could get us tea or coffee whenever he was off to the kitchen, and chipping in to clarify some of Chloe’s more pedantic explanations. His version always seemed a bit more straightforward. Hours later, Chloe told me that my working day was done, and that she would see me at the same time tomorrow. She had barely finished her sentence before her eyes were back on her BlackBerry screen.

When I eventually left TV Centre and stepped into the London drizzle it was already dusk. I headed for the pedestrian crossing, trying to splash as little as possible of the mulchy grey puddles all over my smart new tights. Natalie, my elder sister, had given them to me for the job interview, and made no secret of telling me that the precious Wolfords had cost her £15 – for tights! The woman was insane, but I did appreciate the gesture. I couldn’t doubt the fact that my big sister had really wanted me to get the job, even if she thought Lycra-clad legs would be the key to my success. Either way, the Wolfords had now become a bit of a good luck talisman and I was determined to keep them safe. I decided to scurry across the road and into Westfield Shopping Centre to take back something for supper to say thank you. The rain was coming down a little harder by the time the traffic stopped at the crossing, so I broke into a run as I reached the pavement on the other side. As I did so, I leapt inelegantly onto an unexpectedly wobbly paving stone, which squelched down into a pool of water, entirely soaking my foot. As I stumbled, I banged into an enormous male chest that I hadn’t noticed approaching.

‘Youch!’ I yelped, and looked up, standing on my remaining dry leg, to see one of the most extraordinary men I had ever clapped eyes on. He had pale hair and lightly tanned skin, but his face was just a blur of attractiveness. Perhaps there was an enormous pair of brown eyes. Most of all, I was left breathless by the Wall-of-ManChest, which remained immobile.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked. I couldn’t quite work out his accent. He sounded foreign, but in a non-specific way that made it hard for me to place him. I continued to shake my soggy foot, and in doing so flicked my patent leather ballet pump off and into the puddle I had just stepped in.

‘Yes. I, er, the puddle,’ was all I could muster.

He looked at my shoe, and slowly bent down to pick it up for me. As he leant forward I copped a quick glimpse of the soft blond hair peeking out above the deep V of his T-shirt. The one leg I was left standing on nearly collapsed. He bent down, picked up my poor bedraggled shoe, shook it off and gave it a quick wipe with a tissue he’d pulled out from the pocket of his enormous hoodie. Then, he handed it back.

‘There you go, Cinderella.’

‘Thank you,’ I gasped. He smiled at me and I managed a goofy half smile back. My tights were suddenly immaterial, as were my shoes: I am quite sure I floated the rest of the way to Westfield.