Amanda Roberts - Shimmer

My cheeks were burning even though no one else had seen our little interaction.

Things became even more tense by Friday. People had started to use fewer words per sentence, and replaced the lost verbs with cups of coffee. And – finally – the celebrities and dancers had started to populate the studio floor. Almost all afternoon was spent on the band rehearsal, which turned out to be the biggest test so far of my ability to remain calm and collected. There were several things that tampered with this aforementioned professionalism.

For starters, it was the first time I had seen any of the celebrities. Sure, I had seen celebrities before – my mum had taken Natalie and me to see countless dance shows in the West End when we were younger. Musicals had been my obsession – every birthday and Christmas the trip to London had been my biggest treat. I had done work experience on some low-rent cable channels, which had seen Big Brother contestants from years gone by lapping up the final remnants of their fifteen minutes of fame by presenting obscure game shows.

But these were Strictly celebs: a unique mixture of genuine icons, national treasures and sports legends … all of them doing something that was utterly new to them. It was that rarest of rare things – nervous celebrities, doing their best, but out of their comfort zone. I was transfixed.

The most common reaction to seeing a celebrity in real life is to compare them to the image you have been carrying around in your mind. It’s rarely an accurate image, but a kind of composite of your favourite of their screen appearances, the worst paparazzi shots you’ve ever seen of them, and perhaps a photo or two that you once snipped out of a magazine because you wanted hair, boots or a boyfriend like them. That picture will have been pinned to your cubicle at work, or carried around in your wallet until it’s all tatty. But the image is now ingrained and you’re left with a semi-false impression of what they actually look like. This is why the first thing that mere mortals say to celebrities is rarely: ‘Hello there. It is a pleasure to meet you. I am a great admirer of both your work and your style, and I look forward to many years of friendship with you.’ Instead, they might say: ‘Oh. Emm. Gee! You are so much taller in real life!’ or ‘Woah, you’re actually REALLY good looking!’

Like I said, it can be a self-respect Bermuda Triangle. Consequently, I was calm to the point of off-hand when I met the first batch of celebs. Matt and I were on another one of our endless caffeine runs, when the show’s director asked us to go down to the studio floor and see if anyone else wanted drinks. We left the production gallery and wandered sheepishly onto the edge of the dance floor.

‘Hi guys,’ said Matt. His gait and his lolloping arms betrayed no shred of nerves as he approached those waiting to dance. A few of them were sitting on the golden audience chairs between the band area and the judges’ desk. Everyone was pretending not to be doing it, but they were all looking at each other, trying to size up the competition. These weren’t the confident gods and goddesses I was used to seeing on screen. These were real people, and they looked nervous. Flavia and Kristina were using the backs of a couple of chairs for some hamstring stretches. Despite the tension in the air, they looked fabulous, in tight leotards and stockings with gold high heels. I caught myself tugging at my own clothes, trying to make sure my imperfections weren’t on display anywhere near them. Meanwhile, one of the celebrities, an ex-footballer who I remember my dad worshipping all through my childhood, was standing at the edge of the floor, running through steps in his head and counting furiously under his breath.

‘Hey,’ said Flavia, looking up at Matt.

‘Can we get you any drinks? Water, tea, coffee, whatever?’ he asked.

‘Yes, please.’ She looked over her shoulder at the others. ‘Guys? Drinks?’

Moments later I was jotting down the list of drinks, while not – I repeat NOT – standing there slack-jawed saying, ‘But Flavia, you’re tiny, so petite and beautiful!’ or ‘Oh wow, Brett, you sooo don’t look as tall in real life as you do on that soap. What are the sets made of? Dolls’ houses?’

By the time I returned from the canteen with Matt, each of us laden with a wobbling tray, the band rehearsal was well underway. It was no longer just the celebrities and their dancers standing around – the band were now in position and rehearsing the music with the dancers for the first time.

It had genuinely never occurred to me how important the music was to the show until that moment. But when I put down my tray and looked up to see Kristina deep in conversation with Gnasher, urgently marking out the beats with her fist in her palm, I realised that the relationship between the band’s performance and the dancers’ was totally co-dependent. A duff note could mean a duff step, and vice versa.

In the meantime, Kristina’s partner, a gregarious musician who’d once had a reputation as a bad boy and was now beloved of housewives (including my mum) up and down the country, was clowning around with the others gathered at the side of the stage. Confidently performing faux-elaborate moves while adding a little human beat box to the amusement of the gathered crowd, he had everyone eating out of the palm of his hand. Suddenly, Kristina clapped her hands and summoned him to the dance floor.

This was going to be the first time I had seen any actual dancing, so I was desperate not to head off set straight away. Matt clearly noticed, as when I looked up, he said with an enormous sense of purpose, ‘Er, Amanda, please could you check for cups and bottles we need to take back and throw away? Thanks.’

I tried to smile in gratitude, but the minute he had finished saying it he looked away, picked up his tray, his face utterly deadpan. Kristina and her partner took to the stage, and the familiar voiceover began to play on set.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen! Please welcome to the dance floor …’

I didn’t listen to the rest, mesmerised as I was by Kristina’s last-minute stretches. She appeared to be entirely flat at one point. Oh, to be a proper dancer, I thought to myself, remembering the years I had spent making up ridiculous routines with Natalie when we’d been younger.

Suddenly, the music began and the dancers sprang into motion. Immediately everyone fell silent and watched, held by the now-electric atmosphere. The dance seemed so fast and so nimble. I forgot to maintain any pretence of clearing up cups. But, within moments, the spell was broken. The dancers, who had been so confident, had fluffed their steps and were standing, confused, turning towards the band. The ballroom floor seemed larger; the dancers significantly smaller. They returned to their starting positions again.

The nerves had got to everyone. I sensed I should make myself invisible again. I returned to collecting the empties and followed Matt off the studio floor.

‘Wow, wow, WOW!’ I whispered, as soon as I thought we’d be out of earshot. ‘I can’t believe how different it looks in real life! I wonder how the judges find anything to criticise half the time, but now it suddenly all makes sense. You can see everything, every breath, every wisp of hair …’

Matt chuckled. ‘Come on, Superfan,’ he said. There was a pause while both of us heard Chloe calling us on the talkback system.

‘Could you head back to the office please? We need you to collect the guest lists for tonight, thanks.’ Chloe’s voice sounded no warmer. I felt my nerves returning as the temporary shimmer of life on the dance floor quickly faded. As we headed towards the office, we passed a group of professional dancers congregated around a doorway, chatting. They looked anxious and surviving on exhilaration alone. I realised that however tired I was, they must have been up for hours longer than me, doing physical exercise, and the hardest part of their working day was still hours away. The thought made me want to yawn.