A Step In Time: A feel-good read, perfect for fans of Strictly Come Dancing!
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
**
‘the best book she has written to date’ – Babs’ Bookshelf on A Step in Time
**
‘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.