The Near & Far Series

by Serena Clarke

  And once the dress was nipped and tucked to fit perfectly, teamed with spidery silver heels (and seamfree panties), she could see. It was fabulous. She knew Rob would like it, sleek and figure-hugging. She couldn’t wait to see him away from the eager crowd.

  The show rolled on. Demonstration dances from the contestants, Rob paired with the blonde of course, predictions and advice from the judges, and exhortations to watch every night for the next week and vote, vote, vote. By the time the glitter confetti fell from the ceiling, and everyone on stage had finished waving and hugging and slapping each other on the back, and the cameras had stopped rolling, and the audience had clapped itself out of the studio into the night, her head was spinning.

  “I had no idea he could dance like that,” she said to Darren and Angus, over the chatter of the milling crowd. Most of them seemed to be twiggy teenage girls, making her feel like an old aunty.

  “Bloody hell, neither did I,” said Darren. “We’ve created a monster.”

  “If he wins he’d better pass over a share of the cash,” said Angus. “He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for us, you know.”

  “Thank you, Simon Cowell,” said Livi. “But I think you’re counting your chickens there.”

  “Where is he, anyway?” said Darren, looking around. “He can shout us a beer at least.”

  They went back to the main doors, but found them closed up. The stage door at the side was guarded by a large, black-suited, arms-crossed man who would neither speak nor be persuaded to let them in. After waiting around in the square a while longer, Livi started to feel cold in the silver dress. She checked her phone, but there was nothing.

  “Maybe we should try his mobile,” Darren suggested. “He said he’d meet us afterwards.”

  “No, let’s go,” she said to the guys. “I don’t think he’s coming. I’m starting to feel like a stalker.” She wasn’t going to call him.

  “Yeah, bugger him,” said Angus. “Better things to do.” He took off his jacket and put it around her shoulders.

  “He’s probably stuck doing TV stuff,” said Darren. “He’ll turn up later on and leave makeup on your pillowcase.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, the price of fame.”

  But inside, a hard-edged misgiving was taking shape.

  * * *

  Rob didn’t turn up at her place that night, so she went back to the studio at lunchtime the next day, feeling uncertain. She was struck by how absurd it seemed, the contestants changing their moves as the music switched randomly from one genre to another, the audience like wallflowers around the velvet-roped edge, the glitz of the dance floor giving way to the lunch-hour ordinariness of office workers and students. Amongst them were gaggles of teenage girls whose parents would probably be getting phone calls from school.

  She stood at the back, avoiding the cameras, but Rob saw her from the dance floor and shimmied across.

  “You looked gorgeous last night,” he called as she came over, working a thumbs-up into his actions.

  The girls nearby looked daggers at her, but she called back, “So did you.”

  He grinned. “I felt so wrong with that makeup on. Sorry I didn’t see you, they booked us all taxis home after we had a celebration drink. Therese says they can’t have any of us drinking and driving and getting in trouble.”

  She didn’t say that they’d been expecting a drink with him too. Instead, she said, “Maybe tonight?”

  He did a spin and leaned in. “Wear the dress,” he whispered, and kissed her, one hand buried in the hair at the back of her neck, the other moving in time with the rest of his body.

  She laughed, but closed her eyes, soaking in the closeness of at least a part of him. It felt like years since they’d been together. Then she tore away, scarlet-cheeked, as she realised the camera was right there.

  “I’d better get back to work.” She tried to maintain her composure. “We’re really busy at the moment.”

  “Sorry, babe,” he said, as the camera moved away. “That wasn’t fair of them.”

  “That’s okay,” she said, fixing on a smile for him, the girls, and the lurking cameras. “I’ll see you tonight. Have a good afternoon.”

  He gave her a wave goodbye, keeping up the dancing. As she went out, she heard the music change. She looked back to see him grinning again, being gathered up by the blonde for a slow dance. Obviously he was going to have a better afternoon than she was.

  Then she saw Therese steaming through the entranceway. It was too late to hide. She braced herself.

  “Ahh, yes, Rob’s girl,” Therese intoned. “We must do something more with you. He’s maaarvellous, isn’t he. Don’t let anyone cut your hair this week, we’ll sort it out. And keep Friday free for a special event.” She threw the last words over her black-clad shoulder, already lining up her next target.

  Livi emerged into the square hot-faced and annoyed. It was going to be a hell of a week.

  Eight

  The crowd was just as big and enthusiastic for the show’s second night. More glitz, more razzle-dazzle. In the audience, Livi gritted her teeth as the lunchtime kiss flashed up on the screen during the day’s roundup, and smiled determinedly as the camera came around to capture her reaction. She was relieved when the night ended and she was able to make her way out, laughing on cue at the jokes and teasing that came her way.

  At home, she quickly took off the blue dress she’d worn to the show, and put the slinky silver number back on, wondering if Rob would come after all. He was tired when he finally arrived, but he brightened at the sight of the silver dress. This time, she’d left off the underwear altogether.

  The dress didn’t last, as she’d expected, but unfortunately neither did Rob. Before long he flopped back onto the pillow, leaving her feeling decidedly short-changed.

  Then he sat up. “You know, I’d better go.”

  She felt a jolt of shock. This had never happened before. Usually, it was impossible to get him out of her bed, any time of day or night. Not that she wanted to, usually.

  “Really?” She kept her tone casual.

  “Well, Therese says we should all get as much sleep as we can, so…”

  What kind of excuse was that, after all the nights he’d slept soundly beside her? She wondered what else Therese had been saying. At least he had the grace to look awkward about it while he pulled on his clothes.

  As she watched him go, she told herself life would be back to normal in a week. Whatever the new normal would be, now that he was a women’s magazine pin-up.

  For the next few days, she saw him in the studio at lunchtime and went to the live evening show, but there were no more post-show visits. The dancers got visibly more tired as the days went by. Two dropped out, too weary and blister-footed to continue. Contestants were eliminated every night, but Rob was raking in the votes, running high on admiration. Cam was right, he had charisma, the judges were surprised and impressed by his dancing, and the audience loved him.

  Each night, he gave her a wave as he left the stage, and she went home to her empty, unrumpled bed. And as she tossed and turned, trying to get to sleep, she found herself thinking about him. Their chemistry was blazing hot, until the show got in the way, but was that enough? Maybe they were in the same book—but was it only a bedtime story? If she was going to spend her life with someone, shouldn’t it be a book that she couldn’t put down, any time or place? She plumped up her pillow and lay flat under the duvet, forcing herself to relax. Everything had been turned upside down lately—she should probably just wait and see how she felt when it was all over.

  One night, Therese swooped on her after the show. “We’ve decided to do something for you people,” she said. “As you know, Friday is a rest day for the remaining contestants, so we’re putting on dinner and a night in town for the families. Everyone will be there, even the contestants who’ve been eliminated. I hope you’ll come and support Rob. I hear you’re not keen on being in public.”

  “I’ll come and support him,�
�� she replied stiffly, ignoring the dig. “Of course I will.”

  “Good. We’ll take care of hair and makeup, so you’ll need to be at the studio in the afternoon. We’ll put together a little feature to use on Saturday night’s programme.” With a critical look up and down, scrunching her sliced-tangelo lips, she added, “And Liddy, make sure to wear something stylish.”

  She restrained herself. For Rob’s sake, for Rob’s sake, she repeated in her head. Mercifully, Therese moved on before she had some kind of implosion. She’d never met anyone who could make her so furious, and yet so speechless. What would qualify as ‘something stylish,’ she wondered. Something black, probably. There would have to be a shopping trip, with some of her savings. Rob owes me, she thought, in so many ways.

  * * *

  After a late night at the mall, Livi showed up at the studios on Friday in good time, clad in a little black dress from a boutique she’d never dared set foot in before. The price tags within had confirmed her worst fears, but the dress was simple and gorgeous, with a plunging v-neck and a flared skirt that swung around her legs as she walked. She’d had to pin the sides of the ‘v’ to the edge of her bra, which involved some convoluted manoeuvring, but at least she didn’t have to worry about an embarrassing mishap. If it was Hollywood, she thought, I would have just taped the dress right onto my magnificent implants. Therese would love that.

  When she arrived, there was already quite a crowd of significant others—mums and dads, husbands, boyfriends, wives, girlfriends—all in their own version of something stylish. Therese was organising them into hair and makeup, armed with a large clipboard.

  “Right, Liddy,” she said, when she spotted her. “You can go through now, you might take a while.”

  She decided to stick up for herself this time. “Actually, it’s Livi.”

  Therese was unmoved. “Yes, that’s right, go on through please!”

  What could she say? She went on through.

  At dinner everyone had plenty to say about Therese, when the cameras weren’t at their table. They were all looking forward to meeting up with the contestants later, at a club in town, although everyone agreed that it would have been kinder to let them sleep.

  “I doubt any of them will be dancing,” said one mother. “Jasmine is completely exhausted, I don’t know how she’s kept going.”

  “I’ve heard that some of them have pharmaceutical help,” a husband said conspiratorially. “If you know what I mean.”

  Jasmine’s mother gave him a sharp look. “Not your wife, I suppose.”

  He looked sheepish. “She was eliminated a few days ago.”

  “I heard that the ratings haven’t been as good as they expected,” said Jasmine’s father. “Not terrible, but not fantastic either. It was on the radio this morning. They’re worried it might not be renewed for another season.”

  “Would that be so terrible?” muttered a young man sitting next to Livi.

  She gave him a smile. “I’m with you. I have mixed feelings about the whole thing.”

  The eliminated husband overheard. “Why would you have mixed feelings? Your man is probably going to win, you should be loving it.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Or the blonde goddess,” he continued. “Depends how many men are voting. I’d slip her my vote any night, any night she wanted. Jee-sus, she is scorching.” And he poured himself another glass of wine.

  Jasmine’s father had to be restrained by her mother. “Keep the hell away from her,” he ordered, “or I’ll slip you a beating, you little…” He sat down abruptly as a cameraman headed their way. “Just watch yourself, unless you want me to have a chat with your wife,” he growled.

  Livi was glad when they ran out of wine. She had her own thoughts on Jasmine the blonde, but she wasn’t going to share them with the table.

  After dessert, and speeches thanking them for supporting their loved ones, they all walked up the road to Move-a-licious, the cheesily-named club that had been booked out for the occasion. As they walked, they gathered a following of reporters.

  “Why are they making us walk like this?” someone complained. But when she saw the film crews waiting outside the club, Livi realised it had been planned for maximum drama. The manufactured hype felt cringe-worthy, but she smiled nicely from the safest spot she could find, tucked in the middle of the significant others. Cameras flashed as they passed along the red carpet (red carpet! oh, please) and into the darkened thud, thud, thud.

  The first person she encountered was, of course, Jasmine.

  “Hi!” she enthused, her hair glowing pale in the starriness of hundreds of tiny ceiling lights. “You’re Rob’s girlfriend! Wow, he is so great, isn’t he! Hey, is it true, you know, how they say if a man’s a good dancer, then he’s good, you know, elsewhere?” She raised a suggestive eyebrow. “God, you lucky thing… Mum! Dad! Wow, it’s so great to see you…” And she was gone, into the spotlight of a news crew.

  Vodka, Livi thought. Vodka. She headed for the bar. Then, feeling strengthened with a drink in hand, she threaded her way through the crowd looking for Rob, skirting around the film crews doing interviews. Eventually she came upon Therese, in her element with a pack of black-garbed industry insiders.

  “All alone!” she exclaimed over the music. “Have you seen Rob yet?” When Livi shook her head, she said, “Well, I’m sure he’d like to see you. I saw him going that way a few minutes ago.” She pointed towards the back of the club.

  This very small kindness was so unexpected that, after a hard week, Livi felt grateful out of all proportion. “Oh, thanks,” she said. “Thank you.”

  Therese just smiled and watched her go.

  The club was getting more and more jammed with people, and she had to elbow her way through to the back. In the corridor leading to the rest rooms there was a queue of women, jiggling and stepping, waiting to get into the ladies’ bathroom. She waited for a few moments in case Rob came out of the men’s bathroom, then went back out. A reporter from a late-night news programme was waiting, glammed up to blend in, cameraman hovering over her shoulder.

  “Livi, right? Livi Callaway?”

  She held up a hand against the sudden glare of the camera’s light. “Yes.”

  “I’m Janet Walker, Newsnight Tonight. We’d love to do an interview with you and Rob. They’re saying he might take out the top spot. What do you think about that?”

  “I think he’s doing really well, it would be great if he won. And an interview would be okay, I suppose.” Her eyes strained into the dark crowd outside the pool of light. Was that Rob? “Excuse me,” she said, struggling to see into the corner. “I’ll just go and ask him.”

  She took a few steps, and Janet and her cameraman followed. “Oh, I’ll be right back,” she said, dying to be rid of them.

  Janet nodded and held up a hand to the cameraman, and Livi continued towards the Rob-shaped figure. In the smudgy darkness, she couldn’t quite see…

  A girl reached out and pulled him close, the sequins on her dress catching and throwing back disco lights. She stood on stiletto-tiptoe to kiss him, one foot leaving the ground as her lips met his.

  Oh, it’s not Rob, Livi thought, and started to turn away.

  Then she looked again. He buried one hand in the hair at the back of the girl’s neck, and cupped the other around the shapely curve of her bottom, pulling her closer.

  The camera lit Livi’s face as she stood paralysed for the longest moment. She heard Janet hiss “Over there!”, and the corner was suddenly illuminated. She had enough time to see the shock on Rob’s face…and enough time to register that the girl was not Jasmine the blonde, but his other perfect match, as predicted by magazine readers.

  Then her legs were moving, taking her through the mass of people, past Therese, out the door, back down the red carpet, into the city, beyond the reach of cameras, moving without any idea where she was going, just away from the spotlight and the jagged feeling in her chest. His words came back to her as
she wove across the road, between Friday-night boy racers bumper-to-bumper on the main street. We don’t want her all crushed next time she faces the nation.

  All crushed. In the end, he did it himself.

  Nine

  Amongst greater London’s eight million or so people, Livi counted herself lucky to work with some of the sweetest. Cass, of course. And Aidan and Will. They’d been together ten years, comfortably drinking the same green tea, wearing each other’s clothes, and cooking dinner on alternate nights in their effortlessly cool Soho flat. For the last few years, they’d even worked together without any major upsets. They didn’t hesitate to acidly point out the other’s shortcomings, or poke fun at the other’s mannerisms or bad jokes or latest experimental hairstyle, but there was such a certainness about them. They were a team, absolutely.

  Today, at Cass’s insistence, Livi was beginning the search for the mysterious American she’d met on the tube. All week, she’d found herself drifting off into daydreams, distracted by tantalising thoughts of him. Of course, it was nothing more than that—a daydream. If she did find him, she’d return his bag and the clues it held, and he’d return to America, probably into the arms of a feisty but glamorous Idaho cowgirl.

  Maybe it was better that way. After all, when she arrived in London, she’d made a firm resolve—keep herself to herself, and avoid any more man dramas. Sure, there was temptation, but she was determined to stay out of trouble’s reach. Lately though, after months of watching Aidan and Will happily teamed up, she’d begun to think that, maybe, she wouldn’t throw all men out with the bath water. She told them as much that Friday morning at Peach, while they were waiting for the first client to arrive.

  “No, no, no, you can’t throw men out with the bath water!” exclaimed Aidan. “Once they’re clean, it’s a crime to waste them.”