A Step In Time. Kerry Barrett
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was wearing one of my favourite dresses.
Aghast, I pushed my face up against the window of the cab.
‘That’s my soap awards dress,’ I wailed.
I opened the window a fraction and was wondering if I should shout something at someone when I heard a yell.
Matty was hanging out of the bedroom window. I gasped when I saw him. He was so handsome. I’d spent the last two days thinking of him as some kind of monster so it was strange to see him now looking so good. Seriously, seriously good. I almost wanted to rush over to him, kiss his beautiful face, tell him how sorry I was and beg him to take me back …
‘Take everything you want,’ he was yelling. ‘Help yourselves.’
Oh.
Of course there were three photographers busy capturing everything, plus a camera crew, obviously filming for Matty’s fly-on-the-wall show.
‘Keep driving,’ I shrieked. ‘Keep driving!’
The cab driver met my eyes in the mirror and nodded briskly. Next to me, on the pavement, the teenage girls dug into another bag, pulling out what seemed to be my favourite jeans and trainers.
I made a split-second decision.
‘Stop!’ I shouted. The cabbie jammed on the brakes and I was out onto the pavement in a flash, leaving the taxi door open. As skilfully as any rugby player I swerved round the group of girls. Then, catching them unawares, I yanked the bin liner from one of the girl’s hands, pulled my prized Marc Jacobs clutch from an outstretched arm, and scooped up a pair of battered Converse. Then, before the photographers even had a chance to notice I was there, I dived back into the cab and slammed the door.
‘Drive!’ I yelled, feeling like Thelma. Or was it Louise? ‘Driiiiive!’
‘Where to, miss?’ the cabbie said politely, flooring the accelerator and speeding away from the flat.
I took a breath.
‘Clapham,’ I said. ‘Take me to Clapham.’
I looked down at the Converse I had clasped in my trembling hands.
‘I don’t think these are mine,’ I said in surprise.
The cabbie let out a snort of laughter.
‘I reckon you deserve them,’ he said
‘I reckon I do.’ I looked out of the back window of the cab at the window where Matty still stood. We were going pretty fast so it was hard to see but I liked to think he looked a bit forlorn and I felt glad. After all, he had smashed my heart into tiny pieces.
‘You that Amy Lavender?’ the cabbie asked as we hurtled south. I thought about denying it but there wasn’t much point given what he’d just witnessed. Instead I nodded.
‘That’s me,’ I said.
‘He’s an idiot that fella,’ he said, winking at me in the mirror. ‘You’re well shot of him.’
I smiled. That was nice to hear.
‘I messed up,’ I said.
‘Had a drink, had you?’ the cabbie asked.
‘More than one.’
‘Well, we’ve all been there,’ he said. ‘Things get a bit tasty when you’ve all had a few. But the way I see it, you had good reason.’
He grinned.
‘Mind you, probably should have belted him – not her.’
I laughed for what seemed like the first time in days.
‘Want him back?’ he asked.
‘Nope.’
‘Nice one,’ he said, indicating and pulling into the kerb. ‘Find someone who’s worthy of you, that’s my advice. Here we are then.’
He had stopped outside a beautiful house facing a huge expanse of grass – Clapham Common, I guessed.
I widened my eyes in surprise.
‘Is this it?’
It was. It was a stunning house. One of the Victorian double-fronted villas that lined the edges of the common like sentries. It had wrought-iron railings, flowers in pots either side of the enormous front door, and a black-and-white tiled path. And to the left some stone steps led down to a second front door, this one painted a smart grey, at basement level. My new home. For now.
I handed over a bundle of notes and scrambled out of the car, clutching my handbag, bin liner and the stolen Converse. The cabbie waved cheerily at me as he drove off and I blew him a kiss – he’d been a real tonic – and gazed up at the house. I saw a movement at the window on the ground floor and wondered if the old woman was watching me. Maybe she was planning to phone the papers and tell them where I was, I thought, slightly hysterically. Or perhaps she was going to be a nosey old trout who made my life a misery. I squinted at the window again but I couldn’t see anyone, so I made my way carefully down the steep stairs.
The flat was actually really nice and surprisingly light for a basement. It had one bedroom with a double bed and fitted wardrobes – not that I had much to put in them – and when I lay on the bed to test it I could see people’s feet and ankles as they walked along the road.
There was a basic bathroom and a large sitting room, with an open-plan kitchen area at one end. It was a lovely room with wooden floors, an original tiled fireplace and French windows that opened onto a tiny paved backyard. There was a sofa and a squishy armchair, a small TV and DVD player, and empty bookshelves. It was all a bit unloved but it was okay. For now, I thought again.
My phone rang and I dived for it. Babs.
‘Hit me with it,’ I said. ‘When do I fly out to Oz?’
There was a pause.
‘Ah,’ said Babs.
‘What do you mean, “ah”?’ I said, hysteria mounting. ‘What does “ah” mean?’
‘Jungle’s not a goer, I’m afraid,’ Babs said. ‘But don’t be downhearted. I’ve come up with something really special.’
‘Really?’ I said, curiosity overtaking my disappointment. ‘What is it?’
‘I’ve called in just about every favour I’ve ever been owed, and pulled a lot of strings,’ Babs said.
‘Yes,’ I said.
Babs made a noise that I thought was supposed to be a drum roll.
‘Babs,’ I said. ‘What is it?’
‘Strictly. Stars. Dancing,’ she said triumphantly.
I sat down heavily on the sofa.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Strictly Stars Dancing,’ Babs said again. ‘It’s glittery, it’s fabulous and it’s going to make you the nation’s darling once more.’
I felt sick.
‘Babs,’ I whispered. ‘I can’t dance.’
I watched as the girl stumbled down the steps to the basement flat, carrying bin liners that spilled their contents over the concrete stairs. She was very pretty, though her eyes were swollen and red, from crying, I assumed. And she was very thin. Her legs in her skin-tight jeans were like twigs. She reminded me of my Ginny, back in the sixties, when she was fashionably little-boy thin and wore her ravishing red hair in a pixie crop that made her look like a street urchin.
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