Amanda Roberts - Shimmer

I was wandering back to the spare room when I caught sight of Lloyd in the kitchen, munching on one of the croissants and reading my note.

‘Hey, Lil Sis,’ he said, with a wink. I loved Lloyd, but I hated it when he called me that. It made me feel like a toddler, hair in bunches, who needed help with my laces.

‘Hey,’ I replied, clutching my toiletries to my chest, trying not to get any drips on the kitchen floor as I stood in the doorway.

‘So you’re taking us out to dinner tonight then?’

Yikes. I hadn’t actually meant that I was going to take them for dinner. There was no way I could afford that. I had intended the offer to be one of a curry or pizza in front of the telly. But what could I do now? Refuse to take them to dinner, even though I was living in their house, rent-free?

I chewed the inside of my mouth, then replied. ‘It’s the least I can do. What do you reckon?’

‘Well, I’m up for it. Never say no to food. Natalie’s just getting up, let’s ask her in a minute.’

What I really wanted was to try and get Natalie on her own, to explain the misunderstanding. But my hopes were dashed when she appeared behind my shoulder.

‘What are you asking me?’ She kissed the side of my head and manoeuvred around me into the kitchen. Lloyd passed her the note. She picked up the other croissant, clearly assuming he had bought it, and read. Seconds later she looked up.

‘Awww. Thanks, Chicken. That would be lovely. And listen, sorry about my note last night. I was just really tired, and in a bit of a crabby mood. I should probably not have left it out like that, and just spoken to you this morning.’

She was being so sweet. I realised I might have got myself into a right state for no real reason. I hadn’t had my first pay cheque yet; I barely had enough money to pay for my tube fares all week, let alone for a meal for three in swanky South West London. But I knew there was no real way to get out of it, so I hugged Natalie and said ‘Great. Just let me know where’s good,’ and headed back to the spare bedroom.

I flopped onto the bed, wondering how I was going to negotiate this dinner without making everyone concerned feel worse. My phone buzzed on the duvet next to me: a text message. I picked it up and looked at the screen.

BABE! I am in town for the weekend. You around this afternoon?Text me up.xJ

It was Julia, one of my best mates from college. Probably the coolest friend I’ve ever had, she was currently in Milan doing a placement as part of her BA. She was one of the girls I had missed the most over the interminable Surrey Summer, and I was thrilled to hear from her.

How come you’re back? Where are you? Can’t wait to see you. xx

After pressing send I didn’t let go of the phone, hoping that Julia would get back to me as fast as I had to her. I was in luck.

Coolio. Soho? An hour? Jx See you there. xx

Leaving my dinner apprehensions behind, half an hour later I was on the tube, whizzing up to Tottenham Court Road, my head swimming with all of the gossip I had. We met in an Italian coffee shop on Dean Street that we had been going to ever since I began visiting her during my university holidays. Julia, who had grown up in London, seemed to have known about places like this all of her life. I was sure that her grandmother was one of the original generation of post-war coffee-shop girls who had spent her evenings necking expressos and dancing the jive with men in immaculate suits. We ordered sandwiches and perched on stools at the shiny 1950s laminated bar.

‘What the hell are you doing in town then?’

‘Massive family party tomorrow – I had it written down in my diary in the wrong month, or I would have told you that I was going to be around slightly sooner. My mum called on Wednesday to check what flight I was on and I realised my mistake. Luckily I had bought tickets for the right weekend, but just written it down wrong or I’d be in serious trouble.’

This was the kind of scrape that Julia got into – and out of – the whole time: I always took dance classes while I was at school, and then at university I carried it on with the local Salsa society, but Julia would just turn up every few weeks to keep me company or to check out any new dancers I’d been telling her about. She never paid any attention to what the instructor was telling us, but managed to fit in with the rest of the class without her somewhat unorthodox technique drawing too much attention to the fact that she barely turned up. In fact, the only reason that she ever seemed to catch the instructor’s eye was because she would walk in looking so dramatic, and be so charming that most of the men in the room would be bewitched by her. If I could have had an ounce of her nonchalant confidence when I was not in Salsa classes, I do not think I would have been so devoted to dancing for so long. For Julia, the dancing barely mattered: she brought her personality to the class. For me, I needed the dancing to bring out my personality.

So I didn’t dwell on her sudden appearance, having seen her come up against such scrapes before. Instead, we got down to the serious business of two months’ worth of news. By the time we had got through our sandwiches, a massive bottle of San Pellegrino, and four coffees, we had just about covered her love life with an Italian boy who was clearly never going to be a long-term prospect for as long as he continued to live in his mum’s beautiful Milanese apartment, her applications for internships at Italian fashion houses, my total lack of any romantic action over the summer, and my new job at Strictly.

‘That is such fantastic news,’ said Julia, fiddling with the spoon in her coffee cup. ‘I’m so glad you’re working on a proper show now. And the dancing! I bet you can’t believe it. All those salsa nights at Uni … Have you actually shown anyone that you can dance yet? I bet you haven’t even mentioned it.’

My sheepish expression told her all she wanted to know. She was right. I had told no one about the number of dance classes I had taken over the years, or my passion for actually dancing myself. It seemed so crushingly embarrassing to admit to it when surrounded by the very best in the industry. I didn’t mind my colleagues knowing how passionate I was about watching dance, and about the show. If anything I thought that could only be a bonus in the eyes of my bosses, even if it did make me feel like a bit of a dance-nerd around people like Matt. But to admit to being a dancer myself? I’d rather die. It would put me in the position of being such a wannabe, such an opportunist. I didn’t want a single person to think that I was only doing the job as part of a dastardly plan to become a dancer. I was serious about my job, and about television. Dance was a passion. I was clear about the two, but I did not want anyone else to become muddled.

‘I knew it! Why don’t you say something? I bet one of the professionals would take you for a quick spin.’ She sniggered. ‘A dance … you know what I mean.’

I giggled too, and then opened my mouth to tell her about Lars, but thought better of it. Julia was so feisty, she would build it up into something it wasn’t, and I didn’t need that kind of pressure. But I was too late; she had spotted me.

‘What?’

I waved my hand to try and brush the conversation away.

‘Oh come on, what? Tell me …’

‘It’s nothing.’ ‘It’s not nothing or you would just say. It’s clearly something, and that’s why you have gone all coy.’

I rubbed my face with my hands, trying to diffuse the situation by not looking at her. She sighed.

‘Oh, now there’s only one thing for it.’ She looked up at the guy behind the bar, catching his eye instantly. ‘Could we get two glasses of Prosecco please?’