# A Step In Time: A feel-good read, perfect for fans of Strictly Come Dancing!

Kerry Barrett

‘This is a great book and for fans of Strictly Come Dancing it’s an absolute must-read. It’s FAB-U-LOUS darling…’ - Louise ReviewsThe time of her life!Following a (totally justified) ugly, public brawl with her love-rat boyfriend, soap star and paparazzi darling Amy Lavender's TV career is over.Her agent assures her that winning a glitzy dancing TV competition will put Amy back on top. But Amy has two left feet, and her hot dance partner Patrick seems to think that she's behaving like a superficial spoiled brat (also totally justified).At rock bottom, Amy is now living in a rented room when she encounters her upstairs neighbour, an elegant older lady with a mysterious, tragic air who knows more than a thing or two about the foxtrot.But it'll take more than a couple of dance lessons to get Amy back on the leaderboard and ready to cha cha cha her way to glitterball glory!What readers are saying about A Step in Time‘It’s all set against the backdrop of Strictly Stars Dancing, adding an extra element of glitz and glamour to the proceedings. This is a great book that I devoured in two sittings and it’s absolutely perfect for summer holidays or wintry days snuggled on the sofa.’ – Bab’s Bookshelf‘This was a really enjoyable, funny read… I recommend this book to fans of Strictly, and also to anyone who wants a feel good story with so much more depth to it than some I have read.’ – Fiona’s Book Reviews‘Sparkly, fun, witty and deeper than expected… There aren't enough stars for this fun, deeper than expected witty and relaxing read. Highly recommended.’ – Michelle (Goodreads)‘A great book to curl up with whilst you try to guess who is going to win the dance competition.’ – Kim (Goodreads)

One mistake can change your life forever…

Amy Lavender’s star had been on the rise, until she’s papped fighting a girl who stole her boyfriend, flashing her pants and generally disgracing herself. Now unemployed and homeless her only chance to restart her acting career is to win a glitzy dance TV competition!

At rock bottom Amy is desperate for another chance when she encounters her upstairs neighbour, Cora, an elegant older lady with a mysterious, tragic air who knows more than a thing or two about the foxtrot.

As Cora begins to help Amy discover her love of dancing it is the secrets Cora keeps that begin to show Amy that there could be more to life than glittering stardom.

Praise for KERRY BARRETT

‘A Step in Time was a fabulous, glitzy story, that was a lot of fun to read, and thanks to Cora, had more depth than I was expecting, but very glad that it did.’ – Rachel’s Random Reads

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‘the best book she has written to date’ – Babs’ Bookshelf on A Step in Time

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‘I was hooked from the first page and couldn’t put it down. This is a book about living life to the full, following your dreams and being true to yourself whilst empathising with others.’ – Shellyback Books on A Step in Time

**

‘Kerry [Barrett] has yet again written likeable, funny, relatable characters. But this time there’s the added emotion which towards the end of the story had me sobbing into my cup of tea.’ – Aimee Horton on A Step in Time*

**

*Amazon reader reviews

Also available by Kerry Barrett

The Forgotten Girl

Could It Be Magic series:

Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

I Put a Spell on You

Baby It’s Cold Outside

I’ll Be There for You

A Spoonful of Sugar

A Step in Time

Kerry Barrett


Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015

Copyright © Kerry Barrett 2015

Kerry Barrett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © October 2015 ISBN: 9781474044998

Version date: 2018-09-19

KERRY BARRETT

was a bookworm from a very early age, devouring Enid Blyton and Noel Streatfeild, before moving on to Sweet Valley High and 1980s bonkbusters. She did a degree in English Literature, then trained as a journalist, writing about everything from pub grub to EastEnders. Her first novel, Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered, took six years to finish and was mostly written in longhand on her commute to work, giving her a very good reason to buy beautiful notebooks. Kerry lives in London with her husband and two sons, and Noel Streatfeild’s Ballet Shoes is still her favourite novel.

Lots of people have given their time to help me with this book and I am immensely grateful to them all. Firstly, thanks to Victoria and the team at HQ Digital for their words of wisdom regarding Cora and Amy. Thanks also to my fellow HQ Digital authors, who have all been a great support, providing laughs, advice, ideas and pictures of buff men whenever needed. My lovely friend Aimee has been a sounding board, reader, editor and cheerleader, and I am very grateful for her unwavering support.

I also need to thank Jo Willacy and Laura Marcus for their brilliant insights into learning how to dance, Carena Crawford for sharing some of her own research with me, and Eileen Brockwell and Jack Bridges for the tiny yet vitally important details about the Second World War that made Cora’s story come alive.

And finally, to my grandma, Jess Rogan, who I thought of a lot throughout the writing of this book, who loved to dance, and who will be much missed.

This book is dedicated to the people who choose who gets to be on Strictly Come Dancing. Pick me! Pick me!

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Praise

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Epilogue

Extract

Endpages

About the Publisher

Prologue

Afterwards I realised I was far, far drunker than I thought I was and that’s probably why it all went so badly wrong. But at the time, I thought it was a great idea. Matty, my boyfriend, was out at the opening of a new club and I wanted to see him. So I left the hotel where I was oohing and ahhhing over a fancy brand of hairbrush, jumped in a cab and headed to the West End to catch up with my man.

I posed for the photographers outside the club, giving them a beaming smile and a cheeky look over my shoulder so they captured the back of my mini dress, and then I trip-trapped down the stairs in my super-high heels to find Matty.

At first, I couldn’t see him. It was dark in the club and the flashing lights on the dance floor meant I took a while to get my bearings. But then I spotted his best mate, TJ, chatting to a girl I didn’t recognise, and Matty’s broad back in a tight white T-shirt, his head turned away from me, his tongue firmly stuck down another woman’s throat and his hands all over her bum.

People talk about a red mist descending, don’t they? I never knew what they meant until that moment. All I could think about was that some two-bit reality TV starlet was snogging my boyfriend. The man I loved. The man I intended to marry – just as soon as we agreed terms with Yay! magazine for the engagement photo shoot that would cover the cost of the huge rock I had my eye on.

Shrieking with rage, I launched myself at the girl. I took a fistful of her hair extensions in my hand and pulled her face away from Matty’s.

‘Get your lips off my man!’ I screamed. And then – and believe me, I’m not proud of this – I pulled my arm back and punched her. Right in the nose. I honestly didn’t know there would be so much blood.

Everything stopped. I couldn’t even hear the music any more. It was like the whole room was suddenly in slow motion.

‘AAAAAMMMMMYYY!’ Matty was yelling. ‘Whaaaat have you dooooonnnne?’ He had blood all over his white T-shirt.

The girl he’d been kissing was squealing as TJ shoved napkins at her, and out of the corner of my eye I could see other clubbers filming the whole sorry escapade on their phones.

Sounds bad, doesn’t it? Really bad. But that’s not even all of it.

Realising I’d gone too far, I turned to leave. But like I said, I’d had quite a lot to drink at that hairbrush launch (honestly, it’s the only way to get through things like that – the free booze) and I was wearing really high heels.

As I spun round, my foot caught on the edge of the dance floor and suddenly I was face down in a puddle of pina colada with my super-short dress up round my hips and my Hello Kitty knickers on display.

Lying there, my cheek stinging from the pineapple juice, I watched two men compare photos on their phones’ screens and high-five each other. And then firm hands lifted me up.

‘Out!’ said one of the two bouncers who were either side of me. They were both twice as tall as me and seemingly three times as wide. They’d lifted me so high that my feet weren’t even touching the floor.

‘Don’t worry, I’m going,’ I muttered to the bouncer on my left. ‘I just feel a bit …’

And then I puked. All over his trousers.

Chapter One

‘Get your lips off my man.’ My boss, Tim, threw the paper down on his desk and glared at me. ‘Amy’s meltdown. Full story continues on pages three, five, seven and nine.’

I glanced down at the photo on the front of the paper and winced as I saw the now familiar shot of me face down on the dance floor, bum in the air, as a blood-splattered Matty gazed on in horror.

‘Today’s news, tomorrow’s fish and chip paper,’ I said hopefully.

Tim rolled his eyes and turned his computer screen round so I could see it.

‘You are the only person who’s ever made every single thumbnail on the PostOnline’s Sidebar of Shame,’ he said. Sure enough, the column of pics down the side of his screen replayed each moment of that awful night in full technicolour glory. It was like a flipbook animation of the punch, the blood, the fall and the vomit.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I just really loved him, you know?’

Tim’s face softened.

‘I know you did, sweetheart.’

‘So what happens now?’ I asked, scared to hear the answer. Tim was the producer of Turpin Road. It was the biggest soap in Britain and I was arguably its biggest star – at least I liked to think so. I played Betsy, a damaged but sparky barmaid at the Prince Albert pub. I’d been on the show for three years and I absolutely loved it. And Tim loved me. I’d had some brilliant storylines and I was tipped as the next big thing. At least I had been, until I punched a reality TV star called Kayleigh and showed my knickers to the world.

I gave Tim a sheepish grin.

‘Suspension?’ I suggested. ‘I’ll go to my mum’s in Spain for a month, stay out of everyone’s way, and when I get back all this will have blown over and the tabloids will have a new victim. Just write me out for a bit.’

I was wearing a scarf round my neck – I’d hidden my face with it when I’d come into the studios earlier to avoid the paps waiting at the gate. Now I wrapped it round my head like Dolly, the actress who played my on-screen granny, and picked up the phone on Tim’s desk.

‘Oh, hello, Betsy,’ I said, in what I thought was a pretty good impression of Dolly’s shrill cockney voice. ‘Oh, your uncle’s broken his leg, has he? Of course you should stay and look after him. About a month, you say? We’ll miss you.’

I put the phone down again, pulled the scarf off my head and stared at Tim, waiting for the axe to fall.

I knew how these things worked. One of my co-stars had sent a photo of his willy to a fan via Snapchat, she’d screengrabbed it, shared it, and it was all over the internet about thirty seconds later. He’d been suspended for a while but he was back now and it was like nothing had happened. Tim adored me. The Turpin Road viewers adored Betsy. Surely my punishment would be similar?

Tim shook his head and my heart sank.

‘Longer?’ I whispered. ‘Two months?’

‘You assaulted her, Amy,’ Tim said. ‘You broke her nose.’

‘She was kissing Matty,’ I pointed out.

‘You were given a caution. You were lucky not to be charged.’

‘I wasn’t charged because her nose was full of coke and she didn’t want to make a fuss,’ I said.

Tim shrugged.

‘That’s as may be,’ he said. ‘But she doesn’t work for me and you do.’

He paused.

‘At least, you did.’

I went cold. I buried my face in my scarf and looked up at Tim in horror.

‘What are you saying?’

‘Don’t give me those puppy dog eyes Amy,’ Tim said. ‘You know what I’m saying.’

‘I’m out?’

He nodded.

‘My hands are tied, love,’ he said. ‘You punched someone, your pants are all over the PostOnline and there’s bound to be more. They’ll be after anything and everything. Ex-boyfriends, girls you fell out with at school, hairdressers you were rude to – it’s all fair game now.’

I closed my eyes.

‘Build them up, knock them down,’ I said.

‘Exactly,’ Tim said.

‘No,’ I said. ‘No. The viewers love Betsy. They love her and they love me.’

I jumped to my feet.

‘Look,’ I said, pointing to a framed photo of me gripping a gold statue that had pride of place on the office wall. ‘Do you think the show would have won this BAFTA without Betsy’s mental health problems?’

Tim shrugged.

I picked up a pile of magazines that were on his bookshelf and went through them one by one.

‘Amy wins big,’ I read, showing him a photo of me with an armload of statues at last year’s soap awards.

‘Steal Amy’s summer style.’ I opened Hot magazine at a fashion shoot I’d done and waved it at him.

‘Amy bares all?’ I fake-gasped, then giggled as I showed Tim the cover of Cosmo featuring a make-up-free me. ‘I was in make-up for an hour before that shoot.’

‘Don’t,’ Tim said. ‘Don’t do this.’

But I was on a roll. I picked up Yay!

‘Amy and Matty: Our plans for the future,’ I read. My voice shook as my bravado deserted me.

‘I’ve lost him, Tim,’ I said, hugging the magazine close. ‘Don’t make me lose this, too.’

‘No one’s bigger than the show,’ Tim said sadly. ‘But you’ll be okay. You’re very talented.’

‘I can come back, right?’ I said, still gripping my magazine. ‘Betsy will come back?’

Tim looked down at his feet.

‘We’re killing you off,’ he said.

I couldn’t speak.

‘It’s going to be huge,’ Tim carried on. ‘The biggest whodunnit since “who shot JR?”. People will be talking about it for years.’

I bit my lip. I didn’t want him to see me cry.

‘We’re rewriting some stuff,’ Tim said. ‘And we’ll film your last scenes this afternoon.’

I felt sick. This afternoon? How could my entire life change so fast? But I pasted on a smile, took a deep breath and stood up, throwing Yay! down on the desk.

‘Okay then,’ I said briskly. ‘Let me have the script A-sap, yes? Thanks for everything.’

I air-kissed him on both cheeks and legged it out of his office, down the corridor and into the safety of my dressing room. And then I started to cry.

Chapter Two

I never let myself cry for too long because I hated when my face got all puffy and my eyes swelled up. So after about ten minutes sobbing into the cushions on my dressing room sofa, I forced myself to get up and face the rest of the day. At Turpin Road we shared our dressing rooms, though I’d heard that on other soaps they got their own. I shared with two other actresses, which I quite liked, actually. They were nice enough and generally I enjoyed having someone to hang out with. Not today, though. Today I was relieved that they weren’t around and I had the place to myself so I could wallow in gloom alone.

I knew that I’d be called on set soon, so I dragged myself into the shower, trying to think about anything and everything apart from the fact that in the space of twenty-four hours I’d gone from being TV’s hottest star to a jobless, homeless, boyfriendless nobody. I stifled another sob as I shampooed my hair. Crying wouldn’t solve anything.

By the time I got out of the shower, I had thirteen missed calls – mostly from my agent, Babs, who’d been phoning me non-stop since the story went viral this morning – and a script pushed under my dressing room door. That was it then, the end of Betsy. I picked up the envelope – it was very thin, so obviously the script wasn’t very long. Poor Betsy. I took a deep breath before I opened the flap and scanned the text.

Interior: The Prince Albert

Betsy is clearing empty glasses after closing time. A noise makes her jump and turn.

BETSY: You! What are you doing here?

A hand reaches out and whacks Betsy on the head. She falls, motionless, to the ground.

Disgusted, I threw the papers to the floor. I’d given this show three years of my life, and this was how they repaid me? I was their biggest asset. In my head I heard Tim’s voice in my head saying: ‘No one is bigger than Turpin Road, Amy.’ I winced. What a way for him to prove his point.

Well, at least I didn’t have any lines to learn really. I could just lie on the sofa and feel sorry for myself until I got called on set.

I slumped down and had had my eyes closed for about thirty seconds when my phone rang. Listlessly I looked at the screen. Babs. Again. I supposed I couldn’t avoid her for ever, so I swiped the screen to answer.

‘Hi Babs.’

‘Bloody bollocking hell, Amy. What the flaming arse have you been doing?’

I held the phone away from my ear as she continued her foul-mouthed tirade. Babs swore like a trooper at the best of times, so when faced with a crisis – like now – she was really filthy. Eventually she calmed down a bit and I cautiously put the phone back to my ear. Her voice softened.

‘How are you?’ she said. ‘Are you holding up?’

I felt close to tears again.

‘Don’t be nice,’ I warned. ‘I am barely holding it together and if you’re nice I’ll crumble.’

‘Chin up,’ Babs said in her no-nonsense Glasgow tone. ‘I’ve got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?’

‘Bad,’ I said, bracing myself.

‘The catalogue’s pulled your fashion line,’ she said. I groaned. That was the end of my wardrobe full of free clothes then.

‘And the good news?’

‘Hold on, I’ve not finished the bad news yet,’ Babs said. ‘Your nail varnishes are on hold but it’s not looking good, and I’ve had a call asking you not to come to the premiere tonight.’

‘I’d forgotten all about it,’ I said. ‘And all my clothes are at Matty’s flat anyway.’

‘Where are you staying?’ Babs asked.

‘Phil’s,’ I said, sitting up on the couch and picking up a cushion to hug. ‘He’s looking after me, like always.’

‘Every girl needs a gay best friend, eh?’ said Babs.

I laughed without any real humour.

‘Yeah, well, it’s not quite so fabulous when your gay best friend’s boyfriend hates you,’ I said. ‘I can’t stay there for long.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘Not sure,’ I said. ‘Maybe to my mum’s for a while. Get some sun.’ And a whole lot of grief, though – I was trying not to think about that. Another thought struck me.

‘What’s the good news?’

‘What good news?’

‘You said there was good news’

‘Oh, yes,’ Babs said. ‘I just want you to know that this is not a disaster. I’ve got people out of worse scrapes than a small punch-up in a nightclub.’

I smiled despite myself.

‘It wasn’t really a small punch,’ I said. ‘More of a wallop.’

Babs made a dismissive sound.

‘And my knickers are all over the internet,’ I added, feeling another wave of self-pity.

‘Ach,’ said Babs. ‘It’s fine.’

‘It’s not fine,’ I said. ‘It’s awful. I really just want to go away for a while. Disappear for, like, six months, longer even. I can get off the bloody media roller coaster and lick my wounds, then come back revitalised and ready for a new challenge.’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Babs, I can’t do this,’ I wailed. ‘There are paps everywhere. And Tim’s right – they’re going to dig up every tiny bit of dirt they can. This story will go on and on and on. Unless I disappear and give them nothing.’

‘Oh, get over yourself,’ Babs said. ‘You’re not bloody Greta Garbo. If you disappear now, everyone will forget you. Your career will be over.’

‘Ouch,’ I said. ‘That’s harsh.’

‘It’s true,’ said Babs unsympathetically. ‘But don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.’

‘You have?’ I said, feeling marginally more cheerful.

‘We need to make the most of this interest in you. Use it to our advantage and take control.’

‘And how do we do that?’

‘Oh, it’s easy. We just need people to know how lovely you are,’ she said blithely. ‘Not Betsy – Amy. Your adoring public need to remember why they adored you in the first place.’

‘Right,’ I said, doubtfully. ‘I’m not sure that’s the most straightforward idea you’ve ever had. How would we do it, anyway?’

‘Reality TV, baby,’ she said.

I took the phone from my ear and scowled at it.

‘No,’ I said. ‘No.’

‘Don’t dismiss it, Amy,’ Babs said. ‘It can work wonders.’

‘And it can destroy careers,’ I said.

There was a pause.

‘From where I’m standing, it looks like you don’t have much of a career left to destroy,’ Babs said. ‘When you’ve hit rock bottom, Amy, the only way left is up.’

‘I’m not doing Big Brother,’ I said.

‘Fine.’

‘And only major channels.’

‘Fine.’

‘And I get to choose which show.’

There was silence.

‘Babs, I get to choose.’

‘Fine,’ she said, grudgingly.

‘And minimal publicity,’ I said. ‘I’ll do what I have to do, but not too much. I’ve got to get away from all this.’

Babs made a huffing sound.

‘You can’t hide away,’ she said.

I wished I could, but I knew she was right really. I bit my lip.

‘I’ve got contacts everywhere – I’m sure we can get you into something,’ Babs went on, oblivious to my misgivings ‘Have a think and let me know what you want me to focus on. But do it soon. We need to strike while the iron’s hot.’

‘Okay,’ I said, suddenly feeling very tired. ‘I’ll have a think.’

‘Amy,’ Babs said. ‘It’s going to be okay, you know.’

I tried to smile but it was more of a grimace.

‘Yeah, we’ll see,’ I said. ‘We’ll see.’

Chapter Three

‘Was it awful?’ Phil said, giving me a sympathetic look as he adjusted the hat on a mannequin.

I flopped dramatically over the low table where he showcased his most exclusive designs to his poshest customers.

‘So awful,’ I said. ‘I can’t even tell you how bad.’

‘Don’t put fingermarks on that table,’ Phil warned.

I gave him a fierce look but sat up anyway.

Well, it’s done now,’ Phil said. ‘You’ve filmed your last scenes. Betsy is no more.’

He paused.

‘So who killed her then?

I shrugged.

‘Not a clue,’ I said. ‘It was just one of the props guys who dealt the fatal blow – they only filmed his hand. They’ll add in someone later, when they decide who the killer’s going to be.’

Phil made a face.

‘It’s not a great ending,’ he said. ‘Still, onwards and upwards.’

Phil’s relentless cheeriness was what had brought us together at school. I loved him because, like me, he was always up for a party, because he understood what made me tick, and because he adored me. And we all need a bit of adoration in our lives, right?

Our friendship had lasted through several boyfriends (his and mine), broken hearts (his and mine), career highs (his and mine) and career lows (mostly mine), and he’d obviously been the person I’d run to when the shit hit the fan with Matty. The only fly in the ointment was Phil’s boyfriend, Bertie, who thought I was a bad influence (he was probably right) and who had not been pleased to see me when Phil brought me home, hungover and tear-stained, after spending hours in a cell.

Now Phil gently lifted my arm and extracted a fabric swatch from beneath my elbow.

‘What happens now?’ he said. ‘Where does Amy Lavender go from here?’

Self-pity overwhelmed me again and my throat began to ache with the promise of more tears.

‘Oh, Phil,’ I said. ‘I don’t know. What am I going to do?’

He put his arm round me.

‘You’ll bounce back, sweetie,’ he said. ‘You always do.’

But that made me feel even worse.

‘Everyone dumps me,’ I said quietly. ‘‘Eventually, everyone gets fed up with me and they dump me.’

‘That’s not true,’ Phil said.

‘It is true.’ I sniffed and Phil thrust a tissue box in my direction.

‘Matty dumped me,’ I said. Phil opened his mouth, probably to tell me I was well shot of Matty – he’d never been a fan – but I gave him a look and he closed it again.

‘Tim dumped me from Turpin Road,’ I went on. A tear ran down my cheek. ‘Even my own mum, Phil. She dumped me.’

‘She didn’t dump you,’ Phil said, wiping my tear away with a folded tissue. ‘She just took a chance to make a better life for herself.’

‘In Spain,’ I pointed out. ‘Hundreds of miles away from me.’

‘You could have gone with her,’ Phil said. ‘She asked you to go.’

‘Only because she knew I wouldn’t,’ I said.

‘Have you spoken to her, since all this happened?’

‘God no,’ I said. ‘She’s only interested in me when things are going well. I bet she’s taken that photo of me down from the wall in her bar already. “My daughter the screw-up” isn’t half as impressive as “my daughter the soap star”.’

Phil chuckled, ruefully.

‘You’ve still got me, honey,’ he said. ‘You’ll always have me.’

I forced myself to smile at him.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘PhAmy for ever, right?’

‘Right,’ he said, kissing my nose.

But I wasn’t convinced. Phil had been my rock for years. My best friend, my support network, everything. But since he’d met Bertie I felt like I had to fight for his attention and I wasn’t sure I liked sharing him.’

‘So what are you going to do?’ Phil asked again. ‘Can I help?’

‘Would you?’ I asked, flashing him my best, most beseeching smile.

‘What do you need?’

‘Well, first I need to go and get all my stuff from Matty’s. The only clothes I’ve got are what I had at work – and I’m running out of knickers. But I can’t face him on my own, so will you come with me? Please?’

Phil put his arm round my shoulders again.

‘Of course,’ he said, kissing the top of my head. ‘I’ve got a few things I’d like to say to Mr Matthew actually.’

I grinned. Phil was always fighting my corner.

‘And then, I need you to help with one more thing,’ I said. ‘I need to choose a reality TV show. Babs reckons that’s the best way to get the public back on my side.’

Phil, who, if he ever went on Mastermind, would choose the specialist subject Reality TV 2000–2015, gave a deep, satisfied sigh.

‘She’s right,’ he said. ‘She’s completely spot-on. Ooh, she’s clever.’

‘She should be,’ I grumbled. ‘I pay her enough.’

‘So which show?’ Phil said.

‘I convinced her to let me choose,’ I told him. ‘Babs reckons she can get me on anything. You know what she’s like – she knows all the right people. I’m just not sure it’s the right thing to do.’

Phil looked at me appraisingly, his head tilted to one side. Then he nodded.

‘Of course,’ he said in delight. ‘It’s perfect.’

‘What?’ I said, suspicious of his gleeful expression. ‘What are you thinking? Not Drag Race?’

Phil gave a chuckle.

‘No,’ he said. He pushed his thick-rimmed glasses (just for show – they had clear lenses but he thought they gave him a geekish charm, and he was right) up his nose and pulled me to my feet.

‘I’m thinking you in a tiny bikini, tanned, skinny, bravely carrying on without Matty, perhaps flirting a little with another similarly tanned young, male TV star, and showing the legions of Amy fans – and those who dared to be Amy doubters – what a game old bird you are.’

‘Ohhhh,’ I breathed. ‘You mean the jungle?’

‘The jungle,’ Phil said. ‘It’s perfect.’

I thought about it.

‘I’d be away for weeks – so no paps chasing me the whole time,’ I said. ‘Lots of time to think, to work out what I want to do next …’

‘And you look smoking hot in a bikini,’ Phil said.

I made a modest face. I knew he was right.

‘You’re strong because you work out, like, all the time, you’re sporty and adventurous, you’re funny, you’re kind … you’re bound to win.’

‘What about my hair extensions?’ I said, holding up a strand of the brunette locks that were my pride and joy.

‘They’ll have to come out,’ Phil said, grim-faced. ‘Better to do it now, so people get used to seeing you without them.’

I nodded.

‘I can do that,’ I said. ‘New hair, new start.’

‘So ring Babs and tell her,’ Phil said. ‘Do it, do it now.’

‘Okay, okay,’ I giggled, pulling my phone out. ‘I’m doing it.’

I found Babs in my contacts, and waited for her to answer.

‘Voicemail,’ I said. ‘She must be on the tube … Babs, it’s Amy. The jungle. I want to go to the jungle. Call me back.’

As I ended the call, there was a ring on the doorbell of the shop.

‘I thought you were closed,’ I said to Phil.

He frowned.

‘I am,’ he said. ‘Oh, balls. I’d forgotten about her.’

‘Who?’ I said. ‘What?’

‘Natasha Lucas,’ he said. ‘She’s a fashion editor.’

‘A journalist,’ I shrieked, diving off the chair and under the table so she wouldn’t spot me through the glass door.

‘Relax Princess Di,’ Phil said with a smile, waving at the woman and going to open the door. ‘She works for Society magazine. She only cares about toffs. She won’t have a clue who you are.’

‘She might,’ I said frostily, crawling out from under the table. ‘You’d be amazed how many people watch Turpin Road.’

‘Darling Natasha,’ Phil said, throwing open the door. ‘Come in!’

In came a tall, willowy blonde woman in her early forties. She had her hair in a neat twist, and she was wearing a classic tan mac, cropped white trousers, nude sandals and a striped blue-and-white scarf. I instantly felt cheap and scruffy in my baggy jeans and hoodie.

‘God, Phil,’ Natasha said, throwing her oversized bag onto the chair next to me. ‘I am having such a day. Sorry to be so late – and looking such a mess.’

I raised an eyebrow and Natasha noticed me for the first time.

‘Hi,’ she said, sticking out a hand for me to shake. ‘I’m Natasha.’

‘Amy,’ I said, hoping my hands were clean. ‘I’m Phil’s best friend.’

‘Lovely,’ said Natasha, sounding like she didn’t really care. ‘Anyway, can I have a root around, darling? We’ve got this blasted photo shoot first thing and I need at least three, probably four, hats and the stylist’s pulled out so I’m organising the whole thing on my own. Plus my nanny’s gone AWOL, my buggering husband’s sodded off to Hong bloody Kong, the baby’s got chicken pox, my grandmother isn’t well, and basically everything’s gone to shit.’

I grinned at her. It was nice to meet someone who was having almost as rotten a time as I was.

‘Cup of tea?’ I said.

Chapter Four

When I came back into the shop from the tiny kitchen out the back, Natasha was wearing one hat, holding another, and had her phone balanced between her shoulder and her ear.

‘No, no, no,’ she was saying. ‘There’s simply no point in sending another inexperienced nanny. I’ve got four horrible children and they will break her. I need someone tough …’

‘She’s hilarious,’ I said, putting down the tea tray.

Phil nodded.

‘She juggles about a million things, but she’s always in control,’ he said. ‘Her fashion spreads are gorgeous and believe me it’s worth my while to be a bit flexible for her.’

He sat down on the sofa and patted the cushion next to him.

‘Listen, Amy,’ he said, his voice serious. ‘I need to tell you something.’

‘About Natasha?’ I said, in a whisper. ‘What?’

Phil gave a faint smile.

‘No, not about Natasha,’ he said. ‘About Bertie.’

I tried to look sympathetic.

‘Not going well?’ I said. ‘I’m not surprised. You’re very different people, you and boring Bertie.’

Phil laughed.

‘Nice try, Miss Lavender, but yes, it’s going very well, thank you. In fact, Bertie’s parents are coming over from France next weekend and I’m keen to make a good impression on them.’

‘Ohmygod you are adorable,’ I said, taking his face in my hands. ‘Of course you’ll make a good impression.’

Phil took my hands from his cheeks and held them tightly.

‘Amy,’ he said. ‘Please try and understand what I’m telling you.’

Realisation dawned.

‘You’re kicking me out?’ I said. ‘You don’t want me in your flat when Bertie’s parents are there?’

Phil screwed up his nose.

‘Sorry, darling,’ he said. ‘You know I wouldn’t see you on the streets, but this is really important to me.’

I took a deep breath.

‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Honestly. I can easily find somewhere to live. No problem. I’ll go and stay with Mum perhaps.’

‘Really?’ said Phil. ‘I’m not sure that’s a very good idea.’

Slumping against the sofa cushions, I bit my lip.

‘Nah, probably not,’ I admitted. ‘There are more paps in Marbella than there are here nowadays. It’d be a nightmare. Don’t worry, I’ll find somewhere.’

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Natasha, who’d come to stand in front of me. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing.’

I narrowed my eyes.

‘It was actually a private conversation,’ I said.

Natasha waved her hand as if there was no such thing, her huge blinging engagement ring catching the light.

‘You’re Amy Lavender, right?’ she said.

I threw Phil a triumphant look. See! She did know who I was.

‘Yes,’ I said cautiously. ‘That’s me.’

‘So I’m guessing you need somewhere to live that’s cheap and quiet and available right now?’

‘Yes,’ I said again, sitting up a bit straighter. ‘Do you know somewhere?’

‘I certainly do,’ said Natasha. She sat down in between me and Phil.

‘My mother has just had something of a mid-life crisis – for the fourth, or perhaps the fifth time. This time, she’s in the throes of a passionate affair with a yoga instructor and she’s headed off on a sort of old lady gap year,’ she began.

I blinked at her, impressed at the idea of her mum and the yoga teacher, but not knowing how this had anything to do with me.

‘Okaaaaay,’ I said

‘So, she convinced me to keep an eye on my grandmother,’ Natasha carried on. ‘Which is no hardship because I adore her, but I’ve got such a lot on, and it’s proving hard to get round to hers every day.’

She chewed her lip.

‘She’s quite sprightly, really, considering she’s almost ninety. She doesn’t need much looking after. Just someone who’s there, you know, if she needs something?’

‘Okaaaaay,’ I said again, still not understanding. ‘Oh, god. Do you mean me? I can’t look after an old lady.’

Natasha gripped my hand.

‘You can,’ she said. ‘She’s fine. She can look after herself, honestly. It’s not like you need to cook for her, or bathe her, or anything like that. Her house has a flat, in the basement. It’s really nice – I lived there myself when I was younger. One bedroom, lounge, blah, blah. So you wouldn’t even be living with her, not really. She just needs someone who’s there in case she has a fall.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not the right person. I’m too selfish to be an old woman’s companion.’

Natasha gripped my hand tighter.

‘Ow,’ I said. ‘Where is it?’

‘Clapham.’

I screwed my nose up.

‘I don’t like South London,’ I said.

‘It’s perfect,’ Phil commented. ‘There won’t be any paps down there. You’ll be left alone.’

He had a point, but that wasn’t enough to change my mind.

‘The rent’s cheap.’

‘How cheap?’

Natasha named a tiny figure that I could easily afford even if I didn’t work for the next six months, and Phil widened his eyes.

‘So I won’t need to bathe her?’ I said.

‘You probably won’t even see her,’ Natasha said. ‘She’s got loads of friends. I just need to know you’re going to be there overnight and that she can call on you if she needs to.’

‘I can only stay for a few weeks,’ I said, checking my phone to see if Babs had called back. ‘I’m going into the jungle, and who knows what could happen after that.’

‘My mother should be back by the New Year,’ Natasha said. ‘The timing is perfect.’

I knew when I was beaten.

‘Fine,’ I said, throwing my head back against the sofa. ‘Fine. Yes, I’ll move in.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Natasha said hopefully. Phil clapped his hands and I glared at him.

‘Tomorrow,’ I agreed wearily.

My phone rang and I snatched it up, hoping it was Babs with good news about the jungle. But it was Josie, a TV presenter who lived in the flat below Matty’s. She was probably calling for the gossip, I thought, cancelling the call. Immediately she rang again. I rejected the call once more. There was a pause, and Josie started calling again. I sighed.

‘I should take this,’ I said to Natasha and Phil. ‘Hi Josie.’

‘Amy, you need to get here,’ Josie said. ‘Matty’s putting all your stuff outside in the street. There are loads of tramps wearing your dresses and the paps are going crazy.’

‘WHAT?’ I shrieked. ‘Which dresses?’

‘I don’t know,’ Josie said. ‘Does it matter?’

‘I suppose not,’ I admitted. ‘I’m on my way.’

I ended the call and stood up, tossing my hair over my shoulders.

‘I have to go,’ I said, trying hard not to cry. ‘It seems that, not content with breaking my heart, Matty’s determined to make a fool of me in the papers too.’

Natasha delved into her huge tote bag and pulled out a piece of paper. She scribbled something on it, then delved again and found a set of keys.

‘Here,’ she said, shoving them at me. ‘This is the address and these are the keys. You can move in tonight if you like?’

Relief flooded me. And Phil, by the look on his face. Clearly he didn’t want to think about taking me – and all my belongings – back to his pristine flat for another night.

‘Thank you,’ I said, meaning it.

‘Will you be okay on your own?’ Phil said.

‘Oh, I’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘How much worse can things get?’

Ready to face the world – and the paparazzi – I twisted my hair into a ponytail, pulled on my baseball cap and picked up my sunglasses. Then I grabbed my bag and gave Phil a kiss.

‘Thanks for everything, buddy,’ I said. ‘I’ll give you a call later.’