A Step In Time

by Kerry Barrett

  ‘I’d read all the stories, of course,’ he was saying. ‘And I’d heard people say she was a bit shallow – you know like some of these reality TV stars can be.’

  I bristled. I was an actress. Who happened to have appeared in occasional episodes of my boyfriend’s fly-on-the-wall TV show. I was NOT a reality TV star.

  ‘So is Amy how you expected?’ one of the camera crew said. ‘What are your first impressions?’

  ‘She’s beautiful, of course,’ Patrick said. ‘But she also seems fun and genuine and a good laugh.’

  Well, that was nice. Quickly I planned what I’d say when they asked me the same question about Patrick – welcoming, friendly, friendly.

  But Patrick was still talking.

  ‘I really like her,’ he said, a funny look on his face. ‘And that kind of surprises me.’

  Oh man, he wasn’t falling for me, was he? My whole life men had been harbouring crushes on me. I wasn’t stupid enough to think they really wanted to be with me. I knew it was my pretty face they were interested in – and even then it was just the face I showed the world. Very few people had ever seen the real me – the one who slobbed out in leggings and a vest top with greasy hair and no make-up; the one who watched Pitch Perfect then went back to the beginning and watched it all over again straightaway. The one who loved to laugh but had a bit of a temper. Phil knew the real Amy, of course. We’d been friends since we were fourteen and I couldn’t ever fool him. But even Matty had seen a carefully edited version – until I let my mask slip that night in the club.

  Patrick having a crush on me could be awkward, I thought. I should probably put him straight as soon as I could. I really just wanted time to myself to get my head together and learn to be me again, instead of being part of Brand Matty and Amy. I was too bruised, too broken, to risk another relationship right now. Plus I’d totally had it with high-profile romances and being fodder for the showbiz gossip columnists. I didn’t want any saucy stories damaging my hopes of getting more acting work in the future.

  But for now I had to get on with this photo shoot so I plastered a huge smile on my face and pretended I’d just walked into the room.

  ‘Hi guys,’ I said. ‘Are we ready for the next lot of photos?’

  Patrick stood up.

  ‘Amy,’ he said. ‘Great. Let’s get cracking.’

  Doing our photo shoot together was strange. We weren’t dancing, obviously – our rehearsals hadn’t started yet. Instead, we just posed as though we were. I quite enjoyed looking like I knew what I was doing, even when I clearly didn’t have a clue. But what I didn’t enjoy was being so close to Patrick. The feel of his tight muscles under my hands, the smell of his skin and the rasp of his stubble against my face brought back lots of memories of the night we’d spent together. Memories that were really too nice …

  ‘Stop it, Amy,’ I told myself sternly, smiling at the camera as Patrick lifted me up in his strong (stop it), ripped (seriously, enough) arms. ‘No more stories for the PostOnline.’

  When we had a break I wandered over to get some water and checked my phone to see if Matty had replied to the photo I sent, but there was nothing. I scrolled through the pictures, intending to resend it.

  Patrick followed me.

  ‘Who are you messaging with such a serious look on your face?’ he asked.

  ‘My boyfriend,’ I said without thinking. Patrick’s smile slipped just a little bit.

  ‘You’re back together?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, well, no,’ I said. ‘I just thought …’ Feeling silly to have been ‘caught’ messaging the man who cheated on me, I pressed ‘send’ firmly, then looked up at Patrick from under my eyelashes, the way I made Betsy do when she was apologising for something. Like murdering the pub’s sleazy landlord or sleeping with her best friend’s bloke. Anyway, I channelled my inner Betsy and focused on Patrick.

  ‘Listen,’ I said softly. ‘I had a really great time with you the other night. But things are complicated with me right now and I don’t want this …’ – I waved my arm wildly, taking in me, Patrick, the camera crew, everything – ‘… this thing to get in the way. We’re professionals, right? We can do this.’

  For a second Patrick gave me a look like I’d kicked his puppy. Then he straightened up and gave me a smile. The kind of smile I recognised because I’d used it myself so often. A fake it until you make it smile.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘You’re not really my type anyway.’

  I narrowed my eyes.

  ‘What is your type?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Bit more wholesome. Less concerned with appearance and more about what’s inside.’

  I stared at him. I hadn’t really expected a character assassination.

  ‘More real,’ Patrick said. ‘More like a human being.’

  My phone beeped with a message and I leapt on it, grateful for the distraction.

  It was from Matty. Finally. My heart thumping, I swiped to open the message.

  ‘Who is this?’ it said.

  I burst into tears.

  Chapter Twelve

  Cora

  1945

  I tugged at the top button of my uniform skirt. No. There was no way that was going to do up. I’d have to pin it. Trying not to think about what my swelling shape meant, I rooted around in my sewing box for some safety pins and secured my skirt. Thankfully my jacket was long enough to cover it for now, but I couldn’t keep doing this. Plus my costumes had very little give in them and the seams on one outfit were already stretched to their maximum.

  I threw myself onto the narrow bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to muster up the energy to go to rehearsal. I glanced at the clock on the wall. I still had half an hour, thank goodness. I could lie here for a few minutes longer …

  ‘Cora, wake up.’ Audrey shook me gently by the shoulder. ‘Rehearsal in five minutes.’

  I blinked wearily. Audrey was sitting on my bed, while Fat Joan – the other occupant of our cramped attic bedroom in the boarding house that was our home for now – leaned against the door. She wasn’t fat, Joan. In fact she looked like a film star, with long blonde hair and deep brown eyes. Now she narrowed those eyes at me.

  ‘Have you been sick again?’ she said. ‘I heard you this morning.’

  I sat up.

  ‘I think it was last night’s tea,’ I said. ‘Corned beef has never agreed with me.’

  Fat Joan tossed her hair over her shoulder, looking decidedly lacking in concern for my innards.

  ‘Want me to tell Henry that you’re ill?’ she said.

  I shook my head.

  ‘No, I feel better now,’ I said. ‘Could you just say I’ll be there in five minutes and apologise?’

  Languidly Joan straightened up.

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Make sure it is only five minutes.’

  I forced a smile.

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ I said.

  As soon as Joan’s footsteps died away, Audrey jumped off the bed and locked the door; then she turned on me.

  ‘What is going on?’ she hissed. ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘No,’ I said slowly. ‘Not ill.’

  Audrey looked at me, realisation growing in her grey eyes.

  ‘Oh, Cora,’ she said. ‘Oh, Cora.’

  ‘Do not breathe a word of this to anyone,’ I said.

  ‘Have you told Donnie?’

  I swung my legs off the bed and stood up.

  ‘No,’ I said in horror. ‘Of course not. I can’t tell him in a letter – Dear Donnie, I’m pregnant, Yours, Cora.’

  Audrey shrugged.

  ‘Can’t imagine it’ll be less of shock to hear it out loud,’ she pointed out.

  ‘I’ll tell him when he comes to London,’ I said. ‘He’ll be here soon.’

  As planned, Donnie’s division was off to France and they had some time in London before they left for the coast. We’d planned to meet up as soon as we could and Donnie was still talking about getting married if we could arrange it.
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  Audrey came over to me and helped me arrange my hat on my head.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  I closed my eyes.

  ‘I have no idea,’ I admitted. ‘I’m not going to Africa with the rest of you, that’s for sure.’

  A glimmer of a smile crossed Audrey’s face.

  ‘Well, that will please your mum,’ she said.

  She was right. My mum had been desperate to keep me at home in Worthing, dancing in the end-of-the-pier show and teaching toddlers. But I’d been equally desperate to join up, to see the world, and as soon as I’d turned eighteen I’d been off. So far we’d only done the rounds of the bases in Britain with a short trip over the sea to France, but we were scheduled to leave for North Africa in the summer, when our time in London was done. I had been giddily excited at the prospect – until I met Donnie. And now this.

  ‘How far along are you?’ Audrey said, staring at my stomach.

  ‘Don’t,’ I said, nudging her. ‘Don’t make it obvious.’

  ‘How far?’ she said.

  ‘About three months, I think,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure exactly.’

  Audrey looped her arm through mine.

  ‘I can ask around,’ she said. ‘See if anyone knows anyone.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said, naively.

  ‘You know,’ she said. Audrey was from London and since we’d been in her hometown her accent had become more pronounced. ‘My sister knows someone in Camberwell. I can find out how much it is?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘Have you tried a bath and gin?’ she said. ‘I’ve heard that does the trick.’

  I grimaced with the frustration of trying to make her understand.

  ‘No,’ I said again. ‘It might be all right. Donnie might …’

  Audrey gave me a pitying look.

  ‘He might still want to marry you?’ she said. ‘Yeah, and I might be queen of bloody England.’

  ‘We’ve got plans,’ I said, thinking of our trip across America. ‘He’s going to take me to Hollywood.’

  ‘What, with a great big bump or a babe in your arms? I don’t think so, sweetheart.’

  Her face softened as tears filled my eyes.

  ‘Look,’ she said, putting her arm round me. ‘Donnie’s a lovely bloke but that’s all he is at the end of the day, isn’t it? A bloke. Look at you. You’re gorgeous. Nice hair, good tits, great legs. You’re young. You’re lively. You’re a catch. No wonder he’s full of talk now. But will he still be so interested when you’re fat, and your legs are puffy and you’ve got a nipper hanging off your breast?’

  She sucked her lips.

  ‘Unlikely, I’d say.’

  ‘Audrey,’ I said, appalled. ‘Not all men are like your dad, you know? Donnie loves me whatever I look like. He wants to marry me.’

  Audrey squeezed me tighter.

  ‘It’s not their fault,’ she said. ‘It’s the way they’re made – to only see pretty faces and long legs. And it’s just a shame we’re left to pick up the pieces. I’ll write to my sister, see what she says. It’s best to be prepared.’

  I felt overwhelmed with exhaustion. I’d been terrified when I realised I was expecting, but I’d assumed everything would be fine. I’d tell Donnie, and we’d just get married a bit ahead of when we’d planned. I’d stay in London, or go to the country with the baby – anywhere as long as it wasn’t going home to Worthing and my mother – until the war ended, then we’d go to America. But now Audrey had made me wonder if I was just being naive. Maybe she was right. Perhaps Donnie would run a mile when he heard.

  I slumped against Audrey, tearful and tired.

  ‘I really don’t feel very well,’ I said. ‘I feel awful, in fact. I think I need to go back to bed. Can you tell Henry that I’m poorly?’

  Audrey nodded.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Have a rest and you’ll feel better tomorrow.’

  Like a mum – not my mum, but how I imagined mothers to be – she helped me take my uniform off and slipped my nightie over my head. Then she tucked me into bed and pulled the curtains closed.

  ‘Rest up,’ she whispered.

  I cried myself to sleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was safe to say that Strictly Stars Dancing was a nightmare. An absolute, complete bloody nightmare. We were two weeks into the month of training we had before the live shows began and I was hating every single moment.

  After that first day when we did the photo shoots, the sparkly costumes were put away and the hard graft began. Patrick and I trained in a gym in a basement in Shoreditch. Which is a surprisingly long way from Clapham. After three days of tutting, whingeing cab drivers, I admitted defeat. No one was going to recognise me in my training gear anyway, so I did the whole hair-tucked-into-a-baseball-cap, sunglasses, jogging-bottoms thing and got the tube in every day.

  Each morning I’d get off the tube and go into the little Italian cafe next to the gym where I’d buy two coffees – one for me, one for Patrick – and some pastries.

  Patrick never drank his coffee and he never ate the pastries. He never thanked me for either In fact, he barely spoke to me at all unless it was to say things like: ‘No, the other foot.’ Or: ‘Left, left, LEFT.’

  Because, as I suspected, I was a terrible dancer. I mean, really, really terrible. If I was meant to be going left, I’d go right. If Patrick said quicker, I went slower. If he said up, I went down. I was awful. Phil had been right when he said I loved dancing in clubs and at weddings – I did. But I found that without the comforting support of a lot of alcohol I couldn’t let myself go enough to be able to do it.

  I got the impression Patrick thought I wasn’t trying. But I was. Mostly. It was just really annoying not to get it straightaway and sometimes I thought it was easier to be a bit silly rather than try – and fail – again. Sometimes I complained that I didn’t want to mess my hair up, or get too sweaty. I didn’t mean it but I said it anyway. It was like now I knew Patrick thought I was shallow, fake and only concerned with my looks, that was how I had become.

  And to be brutally honest, I felt like he wasn’t trying either. He kept me at arm’s length – literally – like he didn’t want to touch me too often, too closely, or for too long. Despite our night together it was obvious that we just didn’t click.

  I’d had that sort of thing before, on Turpin Road. Sometimes you’d start a scene with someone new and every line would feel laboured and unnatural. I’d had it the opposite way round, too, where things just fell into place. On Turpin Road, though, I had Tim watching and listening and swooping in to swap scenes round or change storylines that weren’t working. On Strictly Stars Dancing I had to struggle on regardless.

  The other dark cloud over my head was the fact that I’d not heard anything more from Matty. He’d clearly deleted my number from his phone, just like he’d deleted my clothes from his flat, and me from his life. It was hard not to feel hurt and humiliated. I’d heard he wasn’t seeing Kayleigh, the reality TV star, any more, but still he didn’t call.

  Even when the contestants on this year’s Strictly Stars Dancing were announced and my photo was all over the papers and showbiz mags he didn’t call. I spent ages looking at my promo shots, and comparing them to the selfie I’d sent Matty. It was fairly obvious it was me, even though you couldn’t see my full face. I had to accept that he knew the message was from me, and he’d just chosen not to respond. Deep down I knew it was for the best – he’d cheated on me and broken my heart and I knew I was better off without him. But I couldn’t help thinking that was another reason my failure at dancing was so annoying. I wanted to be good so he’d watch me sashaying down those steps on the first week’s show and be overwhelmed with longing and regret. Sadly, it didn’t look like I was even going to be able to walk down the steps without going arse over tit, let alone sashay anywhere.

  So I had all this angst going on in my head when Patrick and me fell out – big time.r />
  We’d been working on our cha-cha. It was the first dance we were doing and according to Patrick it wasn’t too hard. But when I turned away from him instead of towards him for the twentieth time that day, then lost my footing, stumbled and fell, Patrick didn’t help me up. Instead he sighed heavily and looked at his watch.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said, my voice laden with sarcasm. ‘Do you have somewhere you’d rather be?’

  Patrick looked down at me as I sat on the floor rubbing my ankle.

  ‘Frankly,’ he said, ‘I’d rather be anywhere than here right now.’

  That stung a bit, I had to be honest.

  ‘Yeah? Well, it’s not much fun for me either.’

  ‘You’re not even trying, Amy,’ Patrick said. ‘You can’t even remember the simplest steps.’

  ‘You’re not helping me,’ I said, furious that he was blaming me for something that was clearly the fault of both of us. ‘You won’t come near me, you won’t talk to me – this is horrible.’

  Patrick rubbed his nose. Then he gave a resigned shrug.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. I felt a small surge of triumph that I’d made him see things my way.

  ‘It is horrible.’

  Oh.

  That just made me even angrier. I stood up, wincing a bit at my sore ankle and picked up my bag.

  ‘I’m sorry that I’m not a natural dancer and I’m sorry I’m finding this so hard,’ I said, adopting the voice Betsy used when she was sorting out fights in the Prince Albert. ‘I’m going home now and hopefully we can start afresh in the morning.’

  Calmly, I walked to the door but just as I stepped through I heard Patrick mutter: ‘If I’m here tomorrow it’ll be a damn miracle.’

  Annoyed that he’d had the last word, I whirled round, flicked him the Vs – childish, I know – then stomped off, slamming the studio door behind me.

  I got a cab all the way back to Clapham – I couldn’t be bothered with the tube today. It was bad enough going back to that flat, miles away from all my friends, with hardly any belongings. I hadn’t even unpacked the few possessions I did have. There didn’t seem to be any point. I hadn’t met the old woman who lived upstairs either – even though I was supposed to be looking out for her. I’d heard the front door opening and closing a few times and I’d heard voices but I’d never seen her. I supposed I should have gone up to introduce myself but that seemed like accepting my fate, so I hadn’t.