Georgia Hill - The Charleston

She was twenty six in six months’ time. Her parents had been patient until now, letting her ‘mess about with this comedy nonsense’ as they termed it but her twenty sixth birthday was the deadline they’d set. Make it by then or give up and do something sensible. Something with a future, they’d suggested, something which can give you a pension.

Merry looked up into the neon-lit sky as cold sleety rain began to fall. She cycled harder in a vain attempt to keep warm.

Crouching over the one bar gas heater in her bedsit later that night she confessed all to Venetia on the phone, spurred on by the remainder of a Christmas bottle of Baileys.

“So I’m going to have to get a job. A proper one.”

“Oh my darling, surely not?”

“I can’t see any alternative, Venetia. Ma and Pa issued an ultimatum. I’ve got to get myself sorted. And, to be fair, you can see their point of view. It cost them a fortune to put me through uni. I’ve got to pay them back somehow.”

Venetia huffed, “They’ve never understood what it takes to get established in this business. Your father especially, has no idea. After all, you’ve only just begun. A job indeed!” Venetia added, in scandalised tones. To her it was the ultimate degradation. Venetia had worked consistently throughout her long and illustrious career and did everything she could to ensure it was on her terms. She’d only picked those roles which she knew would serve her unique talents well. And it had worked. Admitting to seventy, she was a grande dame of the acting world, her appearance belying the wild excesses of her youth. She was also a firm believer in following your heart. The practicalities would follow. She said as much to Merry.

“Well that’s fine, aunty, but I still have three weeks rent to pay and I haven’t been able to eat today.” Merry tried hard not to sound pathetic. It wasn’t in her nature to admit defeat.

“My darling child, this can’t go on.”

“You’re telling me. Now I’ve lost the gig with Del, I won’t even be able to scrounge food out of the club’s kitchen. I’ll really miss those fajitas.” Merry’s stomach rumbled in memory.

“Merry, can you come and stay?” Venetia said suddenly.

“What, at Little Barford?” Merry said, referring to her aunt’s country home in the Cotswolds.

“No, I’ve taken a flat in town. It’s so convenient for my radio work.” Venetia had recently been recording a classic series for Radio Four. “I’ve got an idea which may just save your career.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Meredith child, you’ll just have to reign in your impatience for once. Come as soon as you can though darling, won’t you?”

Merry looked round at her tiny attic bedsit, with its single bed and lone window giving a smeared outlook onto one of Oxford’s less attractive views. “Can I come tomorrow, aunty?”

Twenty-four hours later, Merry was blissfully wrapped in luxury in Venetia’s Maida Vale mansion block apartment. She lay back on the cream leather sofa and stretched out her long legs.

“This is nice,” she sighed, burying her toes in the thick carpet, which covered the floor of the glamorous sitting room. She looked around and admired the nineteen twenties polished cherry wood furniture. “It’s so nice to be warm for a change. I could get used to this. I like Big Barry.”

Venetia looked up from where she was pouring herself another glass of wine. “The doorman? He is a sweetie. A big fan of mine, you know.”

Merry regarded her aunt fondly. “Everyone’s a big fan of yours. Del sends his love by the way.”

Venetia had the grace to blush ever so slightly. “Such a sweet boy.”

Amused at the idea of Del being described as a boy, Merry snorted into her wine. He was in his mid-forties at least. “He’s married now. His wife’s expecting their first baby.”

Her aunt shook her head. “I wouldn’t have imagined him doing anything so conventional,” she said incredulously. “And how is that club that he runs doing?”

Merry yawned and tried to make an effort to be sociable. They’d just eaten a delicious meal, and she’d drunk most of the bottle of Merlot her aunt had produced. She was feeling very mellow. “He’s making a mint.”

“By that quaint expression, I assume you mean it’s doing well?” Venetia came to sit by Merry on the sofa.

“Yes Venetia.” Merry laughed and gave in. Her aunt was obviously in a mood to talk. “So why did you lure me over here?” She gestured to their surroundings. “Not that I’m complaining. This is heaven.”

Venetia smirked and Merry’s heart sank. She knew that look. It was the one when her aunt had A Plan.

“I’ve got A Plan,” Venetia said ominously.

Merry shifted uneasily. “I thought you might.”

“Do you watch Who Dares Dances, dear girl?”

Merry shrugged and shook her head. “What is it?”

Venetia tutted. “It’s a television programme.”

“Who Dares Dances? Sounds like something you have to paint your face green and wear camouflage gear for.”

Venetia looked mystified.

Merry waved her glass perilously. “SAS,” she explained somewhat obliquely. “Isn’t their motto, ‘ Who Dares Wins ’?”

“Very droll, my dear.” Venetia raised her eyebrows in an attempt to humour her great-niece. “It’s actually a sort of dance reality show.”

“Don’t watch much telly.” Merry yawned again. Her only thought was to get into the vast bed in her aunt’s spare room.

“Well, a weekly audience of three million viewers might disagree.”

Merry sat up and only just saved her glass of red from splashing onto the sofa. How many?”

“Three million. A week.” Venetia was satisfied she’d got her niece’s full attention now.

“F - I mean, blimey.”

“Quite. And just what is the capacity at dear Del’s club?”

“Two hundred and fifty – on a full night. About five, if they know it’s me on the bill. Three million though,” Meredith marvelled. “The power of TV, eh? But what’s it got to do with me?”

Venetia adopted an innocent tone. “I happen to know Bob Dandry who produces and directs the show. He rang me yesterday. One of their celebrity dancers has pulled out at the last moment, pregnant apparently.” She paused and then landed the final punch. “I rang him back this morning and suggested you.”

“What do you mean, you’ve suggested me?” Merry stared, slack-jawed, at her aunt.

“You are to report to Fizz TV Studios at ten o’clock on Monday next,” Venetia said, triumphant. “To do the ‘Big Meet,’ as I believe they so quaintly term it, with your dance partner.”

Merry tried to sit up straight, a difficult task on the slippery leather. “Venetia, what the hell have you done?”

“I’ve got you a job, darling. One even your parents won’t mind; they’re huge fans of the show.” Venetia raised her glass and then took a celebratory sip of wine.

Merry slid back down onto the leather. “Wha - what?” One word sank in.

Dance.

She was beginning to wish she hadn’t drunk so much. You needed a clear head to deal with Venetia in full sway. She sat back up again. “Dancing? Venetia I can’t dance!”

“My darling girl, if you ever got your head out from that Oxford scented cloud and into the real world, you’d realise that is precisely the point.”

“I don’t understand.”

Venetia looked down her long nose. “Patently.”

“I suppose it’s too much to expect you to explain?”

“Then I shall attempt to give you a potted history in popular culture,” she said and grinned malevolently. “More wine?”

After rising to pour another glass for each of them, Venetia settled back and launched into an explanation about the phenomenally successful Who Dares Dances , part reality show, part dance competition. She told a befuddled Merry that its last series, however, had been dogged by vote rigging scandals and a race row. How the new series was a much shorter one, a special six week run leading up to the annual comedy charity fundraising event in television, Jokes for Notes . Some contestants were to reappear, including winners of previous competitions. The emphasis, Venetia went on, with this series was to be on the money the show raised for its pet charity, Pennies for Pencils, by the public voting to keep in their favourite dancers.