Georgia Hill - The Charleston

“So I thought, with you being a comedian, you’d fit right into it all. Luckily, Bob agreed. He owed me a favour after the fiasco that was The Golden Egg .” Venetia referred to a doomed drama she’d been in a few years ago.

“Oh Lord,” Merry said, “This Bob fellow didn’t have a hand in that, did he?”

“He did, indeed,” her aunt replied, through thinned lips. “So, he owes me big time , as you young people say. Of course,” she added with her usual assurance, “I was wonderful in it. Just such a shame the leads were so awful.”

Merry laughed and then stopped short. “So, to get this right then, I’ve got to learn to dance?”

“Yes, but it shouldn’t be so hard; you had ballet lessons at school.”

“Venetia, that was years ago!”

“Oh, it’s better than nothing. And you have natural rhythm, after all. Inherited from me, of course.” Venetia waved Merry’s concerns away.

“Not sure about that,” Merry said gloomily.

“Merry, do you want this job or not?” her aunt asked with asperity. “I had to twist Bob’s arm most severely and the little weasel was very difficult. I think it’s about time you took something a little more seriously.”

“Oh aunty, don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m really grateful and so on, but I just simply don’t know if I’m up to it.”

“Merry, I know you and I know that underneath all that cheer and bravado is a mess of insecurity but I really think you can do this. I’m also assuming the thirty five thousand makes a difference?” her aunt added waspishly.

“What do you mean?”

Venetia gave an enormous sigh, “I feel as if I’m dealing with the hard of understanding. It’s your fee, Meredith.”

“You’re joking!”

“I assure you I’m not in the least. In fact, my humour is being stretched rather thinly in this conversation. You should know that I never, ever joke about money.”

“Thirty five thousand pounds!” Merry couldn’t compute being paid such a huge amount of money.

“That would pay off your student loan, I assume?”

“And the rest.”

“Then you’ll do it?”

Merry looked at her aunt and admitted total defeat. “I don’t have much choice do I?” she said in a mock humble tone and feeling the first stirrings of excitement. Despite what she’d said to her aunt (she didn’t want to give Venetia her victory too easily, after all) she was someone who rose gleefully to a new challenge.

Venetia beamed. “Not really, darling girl. And, do you know what? I think it might just be the making of you.”

Step Two.

In the intervening few days, before Merry had to report for duty, Venetia took her niece in hand. She provided a wardrobe of clothes to replace Merry’s student rags, as she disparaging called them, and put Merry through an intensive modelling and posture course. She then treated them both to a day at a spa, leaving them preened, smooth skinned and primed for action.

While having their hair done, Venetia also gave Merry a few more details about the programme and its dancers.

“Apparently, there are a total of eight couples,” she said, over the noise in the salon. “Celebrities partnered with professional dancers, as in the previous series. Each week there is going to be an elimination contest and there will be two couples in the final, in, I think, about two months’ time.”

“Well, the final’s not something that will worry me,” Merry said mischievously, in an attempt to wind up her aunt. She looked over to the next chair, where Venetia was giving imperious instructions to a harassed looking Alain, who was trying to wield a hair dryer.

“Nonsense Meredith. Have some faith in your ability. And it’s simply a matter of getting the right partner, you know. You’ll be fine if you get Daniel Cunningham. I knew his mother. She danced with the London Ballet at one point. No!” she cried and waved her hands at the hapless hairdresser. “I said quite clearly I do not want it looking too full. I told you to simply give it a little lift at the crown!”

Merry shared a sympathetic look with Alain and tried to distract her aunt. “Is there anyone you don’t know, Venetia?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” she replied smugly and bent forward to finger her fringe into the preferred style. “I remember Daniel as a little boy. Tall and gawky with lovely straw blond hair and unusual eyes. Now, Alain, please concentrate on what I’ve requested.” With that, Venetia turned her attention back to the matter in hand.

***

As Merry wandered around the television studio, on the following Monday, she felt, and looked, very different to the student-like comedian actor who had cycled so dispiritedly through Oxford a few days ago. Her hair had been given a treatment, which made the chestnut lights glow and gave it bounce and gloss. Her skin glowed from the facials and expert make-up lessons, and she held herself high after the posture training.

As she searched for the adult version of the gangly boy Venetia had described as being Daniel Cunningham, she felt excitement bubble inside once again. She might just enjoy this.

There were crowds of people in Fizz TV’s Studio One; a mix of press, family and friends, celebrities and dancers.

Merry recognised Harri Morgan from the photos of him in the gossip magazines that Venetia kept in piles in her apartment. He was even better looking in the flesh and she admired the boyish grin, which lit up his face as he laughed and joked around. He might be fun to get to know. Angie, an incredibly successful musical star (Venetia had prepped her) had won the last competition and was a hot favourite to win this special short series. Judging from the journalists flocking round her, the rumour-mill could be right. Angie was standing entwined with a sinewy man. Merry heard the name Scott mentioned and remembered Venetia saying to be wary of him, as he was foul tempered. She watched, amused, as the first meeting of Angie and Scott, who must be dance partners, was then stage managed by a small rotund man. He could only be Bob Dandry. She recognised the greasy ginger comb-over that Venetia had described in such cruel detail. Merry hid a smile as she saw the couple greet one another in apparent astonishment. It was a little strange, as she’d walked past them in the bar ten minutes ago. They’d been sharing a bottle of champagne and looking very chummy.

A woman in a stunning crimson sari strolled past and Merry recognised her as Suni, the celebrated Indian chef. A man with a hand held camera walked alongside her and another meet of celeb and pro was carefully orchestrated. This time, the professional dancer was a neat dark-haired man. He picked up the diminutive cook and swung her round.

“Suni,” he said in a pronounced northern accent. “I’m made up that I’ve got you!”

“Warren,” the woman gasped, “it’ll be fun but put me down now, please.” He did and they posed smilingly for photographs.

Merry leaned against a giant bright pink cup and saucer, a prop, she assumed. She watched and absorbed, fascinated. So, this was to be her life for the next couple of months. It was like a pantomime; carefully choreographed and larger than life. Merry gazed up at the cup behind her. That was certainly enormous. What on earth was it used for? Everywhere she looked she saw over made-up women, with hair piled high and sparkling with glittery hairspray. Some of the men were hardly any more butch. They walked with a bouncing step, on the balls of their feet, gesturing and exclaiming.

Mr Comb-Over rushed up to her. “You must be Meredith,” he gushed. “How lovely to meet you. I can see the resemblance to your great-aunt, of course. If you would be so good as to come this way, I’d like to introduce you to your professional dancer.”