Читать книгу Shimmer - Amanda Roberts - Страница 7

Chapter 2

For the next few days I made sure that I was up and showered before Natalie and Lloyd woke up. I crept to the bathroom, praying that they wouldn’t hear the boiler, and tried to get out of the flat before seven-thirty, having put two teabags into two mugs and left them by the kettle.

They had done nothing specific to make me feel unwelcome, but each time I sat absentmindedly watching TV and enjoying a chocolate digestive, Natalie would loom over me with a side plate, saying nothing, yet everything, with a tight smile.

I didn’t want to abuse their hospitality any more than I wanted to feel like an unwelcome guest, so I tried to stay out of their way whenever possible. Consequently, I was the first one in the production office for the initial few days of the job. By Thursday things had changed: I arrived at my usual hour – which would have been cripplingly early for me only a couple of weeks ago – but the office was nearly full. Once I’d hung up my coat I wandered over to Matt’s desk.

‘Oh, hey there,’ he smiled. He slid his arm around the back of his computer monitor to turn it on. Once again he was wearing an outfit that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a student. The same jeans as earlier in the week, but this time he had some sort of semi-coat, semi-lumberjack shirt on.

‘Hi,’ I said casually, trying not to betray the fact that I had been momentarily distracted by his chosen look for the day. ‘Tea? Coffee? I’m off to the kitchen.’

‘I’d kill for a coffee, thank you, lovely,’ he replied.

‘No problem, coming right up. Hey, what’s the deal with everyone being in so early today? Usually I have the place to myself.’

‘First live broadcast tomorrow, isn’t it? They might not be voting anyone off this weekend but it’s the first show. This is calm compared to what you’ll see in thirty-six hours.’

‘Oh my God, of course. I can’t believe it’s Thursday already. I’d be sick with nerves if I was one of them. How are they doing? Anyone seen the dances yet?’

‘Well, we’ll be down there most of the day and we’ve got lots of rehearsal footage now so you’ll find out soon enough.’

‘Down on the studio floor?’ I asked lightly, secretly thrilled that I was getting to grips with the Strictly lingo.

‘Yup,’ replied Matt. ‘Now then, coffee?’

‘Coming up …’

By the time I wandered back from the kitchen Chloe was at her desk, taking her coat off and hooking it over the back of her chair.

‘Oooh, I’ve just put on the kettle,’ I said. ‘Do you want something?’

‘No thanks, we haven’t got the time. I just need to check a few emails and then we should get down to the studio floor,’ she barked.

Matt appeared behind her and put his hand out for the coffee, making a mock serious face at me on hearing Chloe’s tone. She looked up and nearly caught him.

‘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.

This was going to be the first time I had seen any actual dancing, so I was desperate not to head off set straight away. Matt clearly noticed, as when I looked up, he said with an enormous sense of purpose, ‘Er, Amanda, please could you check for cups and bottles we need to take back and throw away? Thanks.’

I tried to smile in gratitude, but the minute he had finished saying it he looked away, picked up his tray, his face utterly deadpan. Kristina and her partner took to the stage, and the familiar voiceover began to play on set.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen! Please welcome to the dance floor …’

I didn’t listen to the rest, mesmerised as I was by Kristina’s last-minute stretches. She appeared to be entirely flat at one point. Oh, to be a proper dancer, I thought to myself, remembering the years I had spent making up ridiculous routines with Natalie when we’d been younger.

Suddenly, the music began and the dancers sprang into motion. Immediately everyone fell silent and watched, held by the now-electric atmosphere. The dance seemed so fast and so nimble. I forgot to maintain any pretence of clearing up cups. But, within moments, the spell was broken. The dancers, who had been so confident, had fluffed their steps and were standing, confused, turning towards the band. The ballroom floor seemed larger; the dancers significantly smaller. They returned to their starting positions again.

The nerves had got to everyone. I sensed I should make myself invisible again. I returned to collecting the empties and followed Matt off the studio floor.

‘Wow, wow, WOW!’ I whispered, as soon as I thought we’d be out of earshot. ‘I can’t believe how different it looks in real life! I wonder how the judges find anything to criticise half the time, but now it suddenly all makes sense. You can see everything, every breath, every wisp of hair …’

Matt chuckled. ‘Come on, Superfan,’ he said. There was a pause while both of us heard Chloe calling us on the talkback system.

‘Could you head back to the office please? We need you to collect the guest lists for tonight, thanks.’ Chloe’s voice sounded no warmer. I felt my nerves returning as the temporary shimmer of life on the dance floor quickly faded. As we headed towards the office, we passed a group of professional dancers congregated around a doorway, chatting. They looked anxious and surviving on exhilaration alone. I realised that however tired I was, they must have been up for hours longer than me, doing physical exercise, and the hardest part of their working day was still hours away. The thought made me want to yawn.

In the production office Chloe was printing out lists and spreadsheets with various colour-coded columns on them. It looked like an admin minefield and I sensed it was coming my way. I must have looked horrified because Matt said, ‘Don’t worry Amanda, it’s only paper. We are going to be The Door Police for a while, with the power to allow people into the magical world of Strictly.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t put it like that,’ replied Chloe. ‘But I’m afraid I will need you on various doors at various points this evening. Here’s the list. The different colour codes correspond to the seating areas and the status of the guests. Obviously the celeb partners are in the front row, so we can get shots of them …’

‘Heh heh, especially the ones who were competitors last year,’ interrupted Matt. My celeb gossip database immediately whirred into action as I quickly tried to work out who he was referring to. Chloe raised an eyebrow. There was a shadow of a smirk on her face. Perhaps she had a sense of humour lurking in there after all.

‘… anywaaaaay. Amanda, to clarify. Each of the audience members is on a different colour-coded list. They will be given a wristband corresponding to that list on arrival. This way we can avoid sneaky last-minute seat shuffling. The friends, family and key celebs are seated where we can get shots of them, but everyone else is divided pretty equally. It is simply too disruptive to have people swapping around at the last minute.’

She handed me the sheets of A4 and six bags, each filled with different coloured wristbands. She looked me straight in the eye.

‘Do not let anyone change their seats. These seats are allocated. Okay?’

‘Yes, Chloe,’ I replied. I felt as if I was being told off. I wasn’t though … was I?

The first show was due to start that Friday evening, so before we were due to take up our door duties, Matt and I headed to the canteen for a late lunch. It had felt a bit like a high school canteen to me all week, but now that I had a clearer idea of what all of our roles were, I wasn’t sure where to sit. While we were queuing for our pies, pushing our trays along the three metal rungs towards the till, I noticed a pretty girl about my age. She had dark hair, pale skin and red lips. A cross between Snow White and a fifties cigarette girl, she was one of the most put-together people I had ever seen. Her lips had a perfect Cupid’s bow shape, which although created with make-up, didn’t make it any less cute. Her hair was cut in a dark shoulder-length bob with a blunt fringe that looked as if it had been cut with a razor. It was shiny in a way that finally made me understand my northern granny’s expression about looking ‘like boot polish’. She was wearing a black dress with a wide belt, which perfectly accentuated her curvy pin-up girl figure. It seemed fair to assume that she was a celebrity from a show I wasn’t familiar with. A kids’ TV presenter, perhaps? She gave us a hesitant smile as she approached, picking up a tray for herself.

‘Hi there,’ she said in a soft Scottish accent. ‘Do you mind if I interrupt?’

‘Of course not, go ahead,’ replied Matt. He was sooo giving her the once over.

‘Thanks.’

‘How can we help?’ I asked. Matt now had his back to me and it was clear that if I wanted to be included in this conversation, I was going to have to include myself.

‘Well, I just wanted to interrupt.’

I frowned slightly.

‘What I mean is, I didn’t have a specific question. I’m new here, only just started, and it seemed to me that you were having the most fun in the canteen, so I thought I’d ask if I could join in.’

I had to admire her honesty. And she was right: Matt and I had just been having a right laugh. Who didn’t enjoy piling mashed potato onto someone’s plate with a massive catering spoon and then shaping it into a Close Encounters-style mountain? Who could not enjoy that? No one I’d call a friend, that’s for sure.

‘Well then, welcome to our people,’ said Matt. He put his hands together and gave a little bow. ‘You are one of the family.’

‘Yeay, thank you! I really didn’t want to eat with the rest of the make-up team. I’ve been with them all day, I feel like I need someone, a bit, well, a bit … more relaxed.’

I laughed.

‘That’s us! Irresponsible, underpaid and too silly to know any better …’

‘Excellent news,’ she replied, with the kind of crinkly nosed smile that made me think she could be a lot of fun. ‘I’m Sally. From make-up. Yes, I do a lot of the fake tans.’.

‘In that case I declare you the hardest working woman on Strictly,’ I said, picking up a Wispa from the display at the till, showing it to the cashier and putting it onto her tray. ‘Let me get you this.’

We spent the meal chatting and joking about the rest of the team, and our experiences with the dancers and celebrities so far. Who we’d seen in action, whose costumes looked exciting and who were our personal favourite dancers. It was the first time all week that I had felt as if I was even vaguely among people like myself. Despite Sally’s glossy looks, she had a really warm manner, and I knew that she was the kind of girl I could be great friends with. All too soon the meal was over and Matt and I went to the office to collect our coats before beginning our shift outside on Wood Lane.

We left via the back entrance to the building, passing by the doughnut-shaped courtyard made famous by so many comedies and Blue Peter broadcasts. On the other side of the security gate a queue was already forming, even though it was hours until the show began. Matt took one entrance and I took the other. I had queued once to see a panel show recorded here. This time I was on the other side of the velvet rope, and instead of wearing sparkles, I was wearing discreet black clothes like the rest of the production team. It felt like a uniform, a badge to show that I was one of them. I shivered with delight.

Ninety minutes later, I was shivering for different reasons entirely. The thin Converse trainers I had been wearing all week, specifically to fit in, now seemed like the footwear decision of a maniac. It was freezing, and I desperately wished I’d worn boots instead. I dug my hands deep into the pockets of my Parka, raised my shoulders and did my best to keep smiling.

Luckily the excitement among those queuing was enough to keep my spirits high. Beneath everyone’s winter coats I could see flashes of sparkly shoes, satin dresses and jewel-coloured cuffs. Several of the men were holding umbrellas over their wives, gallantly trying to protect their hair and make-up. Each couple looked as if they were on a once-in-a-lifetime date, which in a way they were. And apart from the love-struck there were also some mums and daughters, gossiping and observing every little thing. As I checked people’s names off the list they smiled and chatted with me, and I helped them on with their coloured wrist-bands, making the same joke again and again about whether it would go with their evening wear.

Then, just as I was starting to fade, Matt came up to me and shoved one of his hands deep into my pocket. What the hell was he up to?

‘For you,’ he said, before darting back to his post. I dug into my pocket till my fingers reached a woolly ball and then realised what he’d done: he had just given me his gloves.

‘Thanks, mate!’ I called over to him. ‘What a star!’ He waved me away casually.

An hour later, all of the guests were safely inside the building and we had guided them to their seats without too much hassle. As Chloe had warned, a couple of gentlemen determined to show their wives a dream night out tried their hand at changing to a seat in the front row, but Matt and the team were there and we managed to keep everyone happy and correctly seated. I don’t know how I concentrated though, as I was constantly doing crazy double takes every time I saw faces I recognised.

Finally, once every guest was seated, and a few final checks were made, I saw on one of the monitors in the green room that the warm-up comedian had taken to the stage. Matt appeared at the doorway, doing ridiculous jazz hands.

‘It’s SHOW TIME!’

‘Yeay!’

‘Come on.’ He took me by my sleeve and led me up the stairs to the studio floor. Slowly, silently, I followed him onto the set and to the position opposite the staircase where various crew members were assembled. We settled down just as the audience burst into applause to welcome the judges. The men were looking dapper as usual and Alesha was stunning in a black sequined gown with her hair pulled back and up in an elaborate do. I was fascinated to see them interacting with each other, shuffling around and settling down for the performances. Eventually, I started to get calls on the talkback system starting down the countdown before air time. Eventually the theme music began and I knew that the show was now broadcasting live.

I felt a lump in my throat, remembering all of the evenings I had spent watching Strictly over the years – curled up with my flatmates at university, the show an inevitable part of the build-up to Christmas with my family. And now I was here, a part of it.

The celebrities and their dance partners started to appear from the top of the staircase opposite us. Like nervous peacocks, they strutted out, both more glamorous and more human than they ever seemed on television. And so many of them! I had forgotten how many there were at the beginning – I definitely hadn’t seen this many of them at rehearsal that morning.

As the theme music reached its climax the dancers had finally descended the glittering staircase on either side, and were now all lined up in front of me like the most bedazzling chess set in the world. They were all smiling, but I could almost see the adrenaline coming off them. Each, in their own way, was revealing his or her nerves. My eyes scanned them from left to right, comparing heights, hair-styles and outfits. As I reached the final couple, I gasped out loud. Because there, next to soap star Kelly Bracken, was Lars, the new Swedish dancer. But he wasn’t just Lars, he was the man from the puddle, the gorgeous man I had bumped into outside the studios, the owner of the Giant Man Chest. It was him. And he must have seen me gasp. Because, at that very moment, as the camera turned away, he winked at me.