‘BEA!’ Emma screams, launching herself across the room and landing on top of me. She puts her mouth to my ear and breathes there for a few seconds. I’m pinned beneath her, my mouth squashed into the pillow. ‘Guess what?’ she says.
I can’t reply. I can’t even breathe.
‘There’s a WOMBLE in the garden!’ Then she jumps off me and disappears as quickly as she arrived.
Now that’s worth getting up to see.
For lunch, Nan makes one of her famous chilli lasagnes and then Dime Bar cheesecake. Emma and I made the cheesecake and it’s good, even with her last-minute Lego ‘decorations’.
Nan smiles as I lick toffee off an angry-looking builder. ‘You’re blooming, Bea. Just look at your rosy cheeks.’ She passes me the plate so I can have a second helping. ‘That’ll be the jive. It’s such a happy dance.’
After lunch, I’m in such a blooming good mood that I agree to play ‘Trampabba’ with Emma. It’s a game she usually plays with Dad, but he’s been away for so long she’s starved of fun.
Mum puts the CD player on the kitchen windowsill and blares out ‘Dancing Queen’. We don’t need to worry about upsetting the neighbours as our house is at the end of the row, and Mr and Mrs Pilkington happen to be slightly deaf Abba fans.
Next, Emma and I get up on to the trampoline and bounce and dance like three-year-olds. I hold Emma’s sticky little hands and jump as high as I can, and I realise that I can keep going much longer than I usually can. I’m getting thighs of steel!
‘Dancinween! Dancinween!’ Emma shrieks from somewhere around my knees.
In fact, she’s shrieking so loudly that I don’t hear the doorbell ring, my mum calling out to me, or someone coming into the garden. It’s only when Emma cries out, ‘It’s Holly!’ that I realise we have company.
It’s not Holly – Pearl would never allow that – it’s Ollie. He grins and wanders over to us. I immediately stop jumping, but Emma and I have built up a lot of momentum and it’s difficult to look casual on a trampoline with an overexcited toddler bouncing around your ankles . . . when you’re wearing a wig. Did I mention the wig?
Mum turns off the CD player and calls Emma in to watch Postman Pat. Well, she doesn’t like that and makes her feelings clear by climbing up me like a monkey and clinging on to my head.
‘Bounce with Holly!’ she screams from somewhere inside my wig. Mum peels her off me, finally getting her inside with the bribe of ‘getting two hamsters’.
Suddenly, the garden is very quiet. ‘We were playing Trampabba,’ I say, still bouncing a bit.
Ollie nods as though he fully understands and then sits on the edge of the trampoline. He looks up at me. ‘I thought maybe we could have some extra practice. Lulu gave me the keys to the hall and they haven’t got lessons until five.’
‘OK. I can do that,’ I say, and then I have a flash of fierce inspiration, ‘But there is one condition.’
‘What?’
‘You must warm up with a quick go of Trampabba.’
‘Agreed,’ he says, seriously, putting his hand out to me. I pull him up. ‘Where’s my wig?’
I hand him Emma’s discarded afro. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mum and Nan peering out of the kitchen window and then my nan’s hand reaching out to press ‘play’ on the CD player. ‘Take a Chance on Me’ fills the garden.
She so chose that song. ‘Shall we?’ I ask.
‘Let’s,’ Ollie replies, taking both of my hands, just like I did with Emma, and starting to bounce. We start small, but soon there’s no stopping us. You go much higher with a fifteen-year-old than a three-year-old. ‘I didn’t see you leave last night,’ he yells over to me.
‘You weren’t around,’ I reply.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Sorry about that. You should have stayed.’ I do rather an impressive ‘bum jump’ and land back up on my feet. Inspired, Ollie, gets up a bit of height, then shouts, ‘Watch out: I’m going to do a knickerbocker!’
10
Over the next week, we rehearse later and later as we perfect our routine and wait for the Starwars auditions to be shown on TV. School has become a complicated game of Pearl avoidance and each afternoon, when I step into the dance studio, I feel my shoulders relaxing.
At the end of Friday’s rehearsal, Ollie hands me an envelope. ‘There’s tickets in there so your family can come and watch us being filmed on Wednesday,’ he says. ‘They want shots of our adoring fans.’
We’re standing by the exit to the hall. I wait for him to suggest we meet up for an extra practice or watch Starwars together on Saturday night, or something else amazing like that, but he doesn’t say anything. He must have plans and I know who they involve. He pauses. The envelope slips out of my hand and lands by his left foot. We both bend down to pick it up, but I get there first and bump his chin with my forehead on the way up.
‘Oops, clumsy head!’ I say.
‘Right,’ he says, grabbing his bag. ‘I’d better go.’ He opens the door and looks at me for a moment longer, rubbing his chin. His eyes make me do a thousand internal knickerbockers.
‘See you,’ I say, but the door has slammed shut behind him. Clumsy head. Clumsy head?
The next day, Emma’s allowed to stay up late to see ‘Bea’s film!’ (she is going to be so disappointed) and the Silver Stitchers start arriving from 5 p.m. We all squeeze into the living room and I’m given the best spot in the middle of the sofa. In front of me, on the coffee table, Nan and the Stitchers have prepared a ‘you’re on TV’ feast: there’s egg-and-cress sandwiches, bowls and bowls of crisps, cups of tea rattling on every surface along with tall glasses of ‘fizz’ squeezed into the gaps.
Right in the middle of it all is a cake, made by Marion, that she’s decorated to look like my face. She’s done my hair with liquorice pinwheels (strangely accurate) and used Smints for my teeth (strangely chilling). Underneath my face, she’s piped ‘Bea Rocks’ in wobbly icing. It’s fair to say she’s better at sewing than sugarcraft.
‘You should have asked Betty and Kat round,’ says Mum as she nestles in next to me on the sofa. Honestly, mothers don’t understand a thing. Kat and I don’t even bother saying hello these days and Betty has probably arranged a rave with a gang of friends and a vat of Orange.
‘Quiet!’ screams Nan, sloshing her cava on Emma’s head. A trailer for Starwars has just come on. There’s heavy military music, close-ups of tear-streaked faces and then the screen goes black before ‘STARWARS: LET THE BATTLE COMMENCE’ is spelt out in a shower of stars. The Silver Stitchers scream and I hide behind a cushion. Marion rushes into the kitchen to put another bottle of bubbly in the fridge.
When she gets back, the ads are coming to an end and I’m still hiding behind my cushion. Suddenly, the opening credits appear. Stars swirl around a black sky and then, to thudding music, the word ‘Starwars’ appears, at first tiny but gradually getting bigger and bigger until it fills the screen.
‘Oh, Bea,’ squeals Mum. ‘I’m so excited!’
‘Where’s Bea?’ asks Emma. ‘That Bea?’ she points at the presenter, Shad Montague, a six-foot, suntanned, ex-reality-TV star, wearing a dinner jacket and bow tie. ‘Oh. That a man. Not Bea.’
‘Shush,’ I say.
‘Welcome to Starwars: Battle of the Dancers!’ says Shad, twinkling at the camera. ‘We’ve been searching every corner of Great Britain to find the very best young dancers our country has to offer. Of course, we also had to let a lot of people go because, well, they weren’t quite battle ready as you can see for yourselves . . .’
‘Shad has got beautiful buns!’ gasps Jean, our oldest Stitcher. She tends to say whatever pops into her head. The next twenty-five minutes are taken up with footage of the dancers who didn’t get through and interviews with them afterwards.
‘That Bea?’ asks Emma every time a new face appears on the screen, while Jean offers her expert opinion on every dancer. We get, ‘strange ears’, ‘looks like a tart’ and ‘moves like Marion after she’s eate
n peas’.
Finally, in the last five minutes, successful dancers are shown. I recognise a couple of faces and then see the Michael Jackson wannabe. ‘He was with my group!’ I yell, pointing at the screen.
Shad’s commentary starts up again. ‘Luckily for Jake, our judges were blown away with his Wacko moves. Same goes for Ollie and Bea, who’ve rock ’n’ rolled their way to the semi-finals!’ And there we are, for around seven seconds, spinning around the stage.
‘That Bea?’ asks Emma.
‘Yes!’ we all cry. And then we are gone from the screen only to be replaced with a couple of seconds of The Pink Ladies.
‘Beatrice, you looked absolutely stunning!’ says Nan, wide-eyed. Mum just clutches me to her and wipes a tear from her eye. ‘What you learnt in just a week is incredible,’ Nan adds. ‘I can’t wait to see you at the semis. Is it OK if we come and watch it being filmed?’ There’s a ripple of excitement in the room and all the Stitchers’ eyes light up.
I’ve been dreading this moment. I’m going to be stressed out enough in London without worrying about Nan and what she’ll be saying . . . or doing . . . or wearing. Will it be her Topshop tassel dress (lime green) or her Miss Selfridge trouser suit (strapless)? Will the Stitchers make a banner and will Marion be responsible for sewing my face?
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘It’s next Wednesday so Mum’s working and you’ll be looking after Emma.’
‘I could change my shift. We could all come!’ Mum looks really excited, but I’m not. I can just imagine them having to stop filming because Emma won’t stop shouting out, ‘That Bea? That Holly?’ every five seconds, and the idea of Pearl being close to the people I love, laughing at them . . . I couldn’t stand it.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say. ‘It’ll get complicated. I’d rather just go up with Lulu.’
There are a few moments of silence.
‘Whatever you want, love,’ says Nan, giving me a big squidgy cuddle. ‘We’ll be able to watch you on TV.’ I bury my face in Nan’s shoulder and try to ignore Mum’s hurt look, and the waves of disappointment coming from the Silver Stitchers.
11
On the train up to London, Ollie and I sit in silence, staring out of different windows. We’ve practised till we’re ready to drop, but although our routine is fast and slick, we still can’t do the knickerbocker. I don’t think I’m capable of talking, so I focus on watching cows flash past. Lulu does her best, but in the end she just gives up and flicks through a magazine.
We go on the underground to get to the TV studios and then it’s a five-minute walk. Even though we’re just a couple of hours from home, London is a different world. There’s a stream of people all walking in the direction of the studio and we fall in step with them. Most are wearing security tags round their necks and everything about the way they move and dress says, ‘We belong here.’
The studio is a huge, curving white building and we have to go through security just to get into the lobby. Uniformed guards check our bags and even pat us down. Next, we queue at the desk with the Starwars sign hanging over it. There are a few serious-faced girls waiting ahead of us with their mums. They have elaborate hair and make-up as though they are about to step onstage.
Ollie and I glance at each other. We are totally out of our depth.
‘Don’t worry, my darlings,’ says Lulu, putting her arms round us. ‘If you manage to get through the semis, we have two whole weeks. You can learn some Lindy Hop – it looks amazing – and we’ll crack the aerials so you’ll have something incredible for the finals.’
‘If we get through,’ says Ollie.
‘It don’t mean a thing . . .’ sings Lulu softly.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘Duke Ellington, a swing classic. You two have swing. You have jive, the best dance in the world. That’s why you will get through. It’s what I repeat to myself before I compete.’
‘Hey, I’ve got something like that,’ I say, but I trail off when the lobby doors swing open and Pearl comes straight up to Ollie and throws her arms round his neck.
The Pink Ladies fall in behind her. Lulu rolls her eyes. This makes me feel better.
‘I’m sooo nervous!’ cries Pearl, standing close, her hands resting on Ollie’s shoulders.
I risk a smile at Kat, and she makes her eyes go big and round, like an owl. I realise that this is all she can risk, this is her smile . . . it’s better than nothing. I do the same face back at her and she slams her hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh.
By now, we’re at the front of the queue and Lulu pulls Ollie over to sort out all the forms. They seem to be having an argument.
‘Bea,’ says Ollie, ‘what’s your favourite animal?’
‘Monkeys,’ I reply without hesitating.
‘Exactly. Me too!’
Soon, we’re led along a complicated series of corridors by a girl called Gem. She has a wave of thick blonde hair that falls over one eye and she’s wearing an oversized vest with ‘Die Facebook Die’ printed across it. She out-cools even Pearl. After going up in a lift, down two sets of stairs and across a courtyard, we stand outside a set of double doors that are big enough to drive a bus through. ‘Welcome to studio six, the Starwars studio,’ says Gem, pulling open one of the doors.
We stream in and there is a collective gasp. The stage is vast and stretches into the rows of seating. The black backdrop towers behind the stage and it’s spangled with LED stars. It’s like gazing into the night sky.
Once the doors shut behind us, there’s no natural light, just powerful spotlights that swing across the auditorium. The lighting crew must be experimenting because the lights keep changing colour. I look at Ollie and watch his face go green, then magenta. Pearl is whispering in his ear and pointing at another group of girls. A blue light sweeps across them both.
Gem waves in the direction of the seats that rise all around us. ‘These will be full in a few hours,’ she says casually. The talking dies away.
Telling the adults to take a seat, she leads the dancers up a flight of back-lit glass stairs to the main stage. We stand and look out. It’s impossible to spot Lulu because the lights are so bright. It’s hot too. The girls who are already made-up have sweat trickling down their faces. Gem notices too. ‘Sorry, guys, I’m afraid we’re going to have to redo your make-up,’ she says. ‘It has to be special for TV. In fact, that’s where I’m going to take you now.’
The boys are separated from the girls, and we spend the next hour and a half getting ready. It’s carefully organised and the make-up artists have little cards of information on each of us where they’ve planned our look in advance. I’m given the full Fifties treatment, and it’s much more dramatic than Lulu’s makeover.
‘Gorgeous skin,’ says Harry, my make-up artist. ‘And, my goodness, these are whoppers!’ I look up quickly, but he’s gazing into my eyes as he carefully applies individual false eyelashes. ‘Beautiful grey peepers,’ he says, smiling down at me.
Harry moves on to my hair and, if such a thing is possible, makes it even bigger. ‘I love it!’ he cries, burying his hands in my curls. ‘I could curl up and die in there!’ Pearl, who’s sitting a few seats away from me, chats away to her make-up artist asking for more of this and less of that. Harry outlines my lips with a scarlet pencil and then uses a little brush to fill them in with a postbox-red lipstick. ‘Oh my God,’ he says, standing back to admire the effect. ‘These smackers should come with a health warning!’
I smile at Harry in the mirror and try to think of something to say, something that will let him know how much I love the kind things he’s saying to me . . . but I feel too shy.
‘Thank you,’ is all I can whisper when I look, amazed, at the final, glamorous Fifties film star version of me.
‘You’re welcome, honey,’ he says, squeezing my shoulders.
Our ‘changing room’ looks like a conference room, but the curtains are shut and mirrors have been arranged everywhere. All around me, girls ar
e stripping to their undies and parading up and down the room, competing to be the most laid back. The Pink Ladies are hidden away in the other corner of the room and I’m all on my own.
A beautiful Scottish girl with cropped hair thrusts a mirror in my hand and says, ‘Hold this a sec.’ Then she pulls out a pair of tweezers, pulls down her leggings and starts to perfect her bikini line. How have I come to be here?
When she takes back the mirror, I slip on new jeans, rolled up and tight round my ankles, and another of Lulu’s tops. It’s a black shirt with red collar and buttons. Following Lulu’s strict instructions, I knot it at the waist. Before I go to find Ollie, I glance in the mirror.
I stop and stare, peering a bit closer. I look brighter, taller, more colourful . . . I’m blooming! I fight the urge to smile at my reflection. ‘Hello, Bea,’ I want to say. ‘There you are!’ I tear myself away, realising I must find Ollie before we miss our rehearsal slot on the stage.
He’s waiting in the corridor. ‘Wow!’ he says, his eyes going wide. Does he mean, wow, amazingly beautiful, or, wow, freaky clown face? Really hard to tell. In case it’s freaky clown face, I quickly turn and walk in what seems like the right direction.
‘Come on,’ I call over my shoulder. ‘We’ll be late.’
After we’ve rehearsed, we’re shown into another large room where we wait until filming starts. There’s a table covered with sandwiches, bottles of water, flapjacks and chocolate brownies and a tower of beautifully arranged fruit. Usually, I’d have piled up a plate, but, like everyone else in the room, I have no appetite.
The first group called up, Bo Salsa, is a couple doing a Latin dance to fast guitar music, the next a group of street dancers. As each group comes back, sweating and grinning with relief, they’re cheered back in. I love the atmosphere and if I wasn’t so nervous – and if Pearl wasn’t hanging around Ollie – I might be able to enjoy myself. Gem comes back in with her clipboard. ‘Jive Monkey, you’re next.’
Flirty Dancing Page 7