Carrie Duffy - Idol

Over the months that she had worked for him, Angela had seen a string of mistresses come and go, one after the next, all at the beck and call of Paul Austin. He didn’t seem to realize that Angela was waiting for him, ready to fulfil his every desire. No matter how hard she tried with her appearance – skirts getting shorter, outfits tighter and more revealing – he rarely paid her a second glance.

She knew she was a walking cliché, the wistful secretary in love with her boss, but she couldn’t help herself. She regularly found herself wondering what it would be like to be the wife of a man like Mr Austin. Angela had never been the pretty girl, the popular girl that all the boys wanted. When the women in the office went on a night out, Angela was never invited. She would see them in the toilets on Friday evenings, applying lip gloss and styling their hair, all chattering and laughing, and she longed to be part of that group. She knew that dating someone like Paul Austin would bring her instant status. If she was with him, they would have to be nice to her. They would have to treat her with respect.

Instead, Angela spent her Friday nights at home in her dingy studio flat, dreaming of the day when Mr Austin would finally notice her as something more than his über-efficient secretary. She would curl up in her lonely bed and let her hands slip down between her legs, wrapped up in the fantasy, imagining him striding masterfully across the office towards her and …

She realized she’d been staring at him. He was looking at her, an amused expression on his handsome face. ‘Is everything okay, Angela?’

‘Fine.’ She recovered herself. ‘Fine. Will there be anything else?’ she asked, trying to keep the hopeful note out of her voice.

‘I think that’s everything.’ Angela turned to go but Paul stopped her. ‘Oh, have there been any messages for me?’

‘Yes.’ Angela checked her notepad and made a face. ‘Your wife called. She said not to forget that you’re having dinner with John and Melissa Van Nordstrom, and if you could try to get home early because the boys have been asking to see you.’

‘Thank you,’ Paul said smoothly, not displaying the slightest trace of conscience over having his PA juggle his wife and mistress.

If she was being honest with herself, Angela knew her boss could be a complete and utter shit. But that didn’t stop him being the most attractive man she’d ever laid eyes on. There was something magnetic about him, a confidence and charisma that drew women in. She knew he wasn’t happy with his wife – that was obviously the reason he had so many affairs. Angela could make him happy, she felt sure of it. All she needed was an opportunity.

‘One two three four, cross turn slam change. Good. And again …’

Sadie was sweating hard. She felt it trickle down her back, beading between her breasts as the dance teacher issued rapid staccato instructions, rattling them off like a machine gun. Behind his voice was the hard pounding of some underground R’n’B track, a relentless beat as the singer rapped over the top. It was turned up so loud that the windows vibrated.

She was at a hip-hop class at Danceworks, the dance studio just off Bond Street. Around her the young and gorgeous gyrated and grooved, all united in one purpose: to dance. Beside her was a sexy mixed-race guy with a shaved head and a tight white vest. His body was ripped, his muscles bulging; it was incredible to Sadie how such a big guy could move with such precision and swiftness. To her right, a girl with backcombed, dirty-blonde hair and grey jogging bottoms rolled up to her knees ran through the steps as if she’d been born doing them. Their moves were fast and sharp, their attitudes fierce. They revelled in the physicality, the sheer joy of movement.

Sadie was locked in concentration, trying to master the complicated routine. She knew she needed to just let loose and feel the moves, but she couldn’t seem to relax. It was over a month since she’d attended a dance class and her body was letting her down. In frustration, she swiped a hand across her forehead. Despite the chilly day outside, the studio was baking and the large standing fans did little to cool it. Sadie had pulled her dark hair back into a tight ponytail, but strands were working loose as she danced, plastering themselves to her damp cheeks. She was wearing an ancient pair of baggy black drawstring pants and a loose white vest top. The laid-back clothes emphasized her long, lean limbs with their sinewy muscles. Her breasts were small and sharp through the thin cotton top, her stomach flat and toned. She looked like a dancer. She looked fantastic.

‘One and two and three and yeah, punch, punch, stop, roll …’

Jeez, this guy was relentless! But Sadie was determined to get it. She realized how long it was since she’d properly worked out. Moves that used to be easy, automatic, now took effort. And she tired quickly – her stamina was shot, and she was sweating like a man. But she couldn’t deny that the buzz was there. The adrenaline was pumping, the endorphins rushing through her body, giving her that sweet natural high that she craved. This was what she loved and she was excited to be back out there. She was up for the challenge, willing to do whatever it took to fulfil her ambitions.

To raise the stakes, Sadie imagined this wasn’t a class but a real performance. Gone were the grimy mirrored walls, the dusty floor and the pile of abandoned exercise mats in the corner. In her mind she was out there, live on stage in front of thousands of people with all eyes focused on her so she couldn’t mess up. She saw herself standing alone in the darkness with a single spotlight picking her out as she wowed the crowd. The thought unconsciously made her up her game – her movements became sharper, her head snapped up and her eyes came alive with that joyous sparkle that couldn’t be faked. Was this what Jenna Jonsson felt like, she wondered suddenly? Was this what she experienced every day, this rush from being watched, adored and idolized?

‘Okay, one final time, make it good people, give it everything …’

Sadie barely heard the teacher as he restarted the music. Her body was racing through the steps instinctively, her mind not stopping to think. This was blissful – she felt like she was flying. She was strong, sexy and powerful. She felt her body move, her hips grinding, pelvis rolling, ribs slinking from side to side. For a second she closed her eyes, imagining the adoring crowd below her, wowed by her every movement and in awe of her talent.

Then the fantasy changed and she imagined she was dancing for Paul. She visualized his face in the crowd as she put on the performance, his pale blue eyes trained on her intensely, that handsome face unable to tear his gaze away from her. He’d probably come in his pants right there, she thought with a grin. He’d love the way she was moving, all that rolling and grinding. She couldn’t wait to see him again. She’d barely stopped smiling since that afternoon in the May Fair. Maybe she’d do a private show for him next time. Yeah, persuade him to book a suite somewhere with its own pole …

‘And pow! Hold the final position … and finish! Okay, great class people.’

The group collapsed, exhausted but elated. Some clapped – a few even whooped. Then they quickly dispersed.

Sadie headed downstairs to the changing rooms. Her limbs were aching but she felt amazing. She showered quickly, dressing casually in skinny jeans, vest top and a cropped jacket with an oversized scarf from H&M wound several times round her neck. She pinned her damp hair up and applied a little Maybelline mascara. She didn’t bother with any other make-up. She didn’t need to – her skin was flawless and glowing, flushed pink from the exercise and the hot shower. Swinging her bag over her shoulder, she headed back upstairs.