The Charleston

Say it with Sequins

The Charleston

GEORGIA HILL

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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2014

Copyright © Georgia Hill 2014

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to be identified as the author of this work.

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available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

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Ebook Edition © September 2014

ISBN: 9780007562190

Version 2018-05-03

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

For Geoff because he keeps my heart dancing.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Say It With Sequins.The Charleston: A Dance Full of Laughter.

Also by Georgia Hill…

Coming Soon From Georgia Hill…

Georgia Hill

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Say it with Sequins.

The Charleston: a dance full of laughter.

“I’ve danced the Charleston at many a party, although I hasten to add I’m far too young to remember the dance in its heyday. One can dance it on one’s own – but it’s far more fun with a partner. As are most things!” Dame Venetia Denning, actor.

Step One.

Meredith left the stage in a kind of quiet despair. There must be more to life than this, she thought, towelling the perspiration off her brow. Once again, she’d died. Once again, the jokes she’d thought so funny when hunched over the laptop had raised hardly a giggle from a live audience.

“Not so good tonight then, Merry?” Del, the owner of The Last Laugh Comedy Club, caught up with her in the grubby excuse for a dressing room. He gave her a sympathetic smile.

“I’m really sorry, Del. I thought the stuff about being a ginger would go down a storm with them.”

Del laughed. “You’re so not ginger. Post-Christmas it’s always a bit flat,” he offered as explanation. “People are partied out. And there aren’t enough students, and not enough booze in the ones who are here. This lot just want cheap mother-in-law gags.”

They stopped and listened as the crowd rallied out of its stupor to greet Fred Loss, their favourite and a stalwart of the club.

“At least he’ll get a laugh,” Meredith bit out.

“I don’t know what it is, Merry. I think you’re really funny, always have.” Del looked her up and down and raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps it’s your obvious assets.”

Merry put her hands over her not inconsiderable bosom. “What, flatten myself down?” She tugged at a lock of auburn hair despondently. “Shave my head? And I’ve tried every diet known to man – and woman.” She looked down at herself. “I’m just built to be curvy.”

Del blew out a breath. “It’s always tough on women in this business and even harder if you’re an attractive one. People say they don’t find beautiful women funny.” He shrugged apologetically. “As I said, I find you hilarious, but then I know you. Look Merry, I don’t know how to say this.” Del rubbed a hand over his face, embarrassed.

Meredith put up her hands in surrender. “Don’t worry Del, I’ll spare you the speech. I quit.”

“Well, it’s that…” Del began.

“I know. I know. If the comic isn’t funny, the audience goes home.”

“And stays home.” Del finished miserably.

“You’ve given me a chance in a lifetime. More than a chance. I can’t thank you enough.” Merry gave a tight smile.

The club owner grinned sheepishly. “Give my love to your aunt won’t you? Fancy a drink later?”

Merry shook her head. “No, I’m shattered. Going home. I’ll make sure I give your regards to Venetia.”

Merry watched as Del hurried out of the door of the tiny room, towards the bar, clearly relieved he hadn’t had to actually sack her. It had been his relationship with her aunt Venetia that had got her the job in the first place. Venetia had called in a favour from Del. She’d known him, when he’d been a die-hard Goth, back in their wild partying days. Venetia, now a respectable Dame and doyenne of stage and screen, was terrifyingly bossy. Few dared to say ‘no’ to her and live, or at least survive professionally.

“Well,” said an annoyingly persistent voice in Merry’s head, “I’ll have to ring her up and admit I’ve failed. Again.” She picked up her bag, hunted for her bottle of water and drank deeply. Once her thirst had been satisfied, she stuffed her things into her rucksack and swung it onto her shoulder. Giving a last affectionate glance around the cramped dressing room, she called goodbye to one or two people through the murk in the club and went out into the unwelcoming night.

It was icy. Cycling home past students, just coming out for the evening, she wondered quite why she was putting herself through this.

To keep her parents happy, she’d finished her degree in English Lit at Magdalen College, but had missed the hoped for first as she had been too busy appearing in Oxford Drama Society productions. The acting bug had bitten deep and hard. Encouraged by her paternal great-aunt, Merry had pursued a dual career on the stage as actor and comedian. Bits and pieces of acting jobs had come her way, mostly courtesy of fellow students, but they’d dried up recently. So, she’d begged a favour off Del and had appeared at the comedy club for the last week. She knew she was funny. She knew she was clever and witty, but somehow she could never get that across to her audience. Ever the optimist, she’d been full of hope that her wry, affectionate observations on life would go down a storm with the Oxford audiences. What she hadn’t bargained for was that the combination of an alcohol fuelled audience and a woman under fifty simply meant catcalls and heckles to get her tits out. She’d died onstage every night. And every night she’d died a little bit inside too.

She was twenty six in six months’ time. Her parents had been patient until now, letting her ‘mess about with this comedy nonsense’ as they termed it but her twenty sixth birthday was the deadline they’d set. Make it by then or give up and do something sensible. Something with a future, they’d suggested, something which can give you a pension.

Merry looked up into the neon-lit sky as cold sleety rain began to fall. She cycled harder in a vain attempt to keep warm.

Crouching over the one bar gas heater in her bedsit later that night she confessed all to Venetia on the phone, spurred on by the remainder of a Christmas bottle of Baileys.

“So I’m going to have to get a job. A proper one.”

“Oh my darling, surely not?”

“I can’t see any alternative, Venetia. Ma and Pa issued an ultimatum. I’ve got to get myself sorted. And, to be fair, you can see their point of view. It cost them a fortune to put me through uni. I’ve got to pay them back somehow.”

Venetia huffed, “They’ve never understood what it takes to get established in this business. Your father especially, has no idea. After all, you’ve only just begun. A job indeed!” Venetia added, in scandalised tones. To her it was the ultimate degradation. Venetia had worked consistently throughout her long and illustrious career and did everything she could to ensure it was on her terms. She’d only picked those roles which she knew would serve her unique talents well. And it had worked. Admitting to seventy, she was a grande dame of the acting world, her appearance belying the wild excesses of her youth. She was also a firm believer in following your heart. The practicalities would follow. She said as much to Merry.

“Well that’s fine, aunty, but I still have three weeks rent to pay and I haven’t been able to eat today.” Merry tried hard not to sound pathetic. It wasn’t in her nature to admit defeat.

“My darling child, this can’t go on.”

“You’re telling me. Now I’ve lost the gig with Del, I won’t even be able to scrounge food out of the club’s kitchen. I’ll really miss those fajitas.” Merry’s stomach rumbled in memory.

“Merry, can you come and stay?” Venetia said suddenly.

“What, at Little Barford?” Merry said, referring to her aunt’s country home in the Cotswolds.

“No, I’ve taken a flat in town. It’s so convenient for my radio work.” Venetia had recently been recording a classic series for Radio Four. “I’ve got an idea which may just save your career.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Meredith child, you’ll just have to reign in your impatience for once. Come as soon as you can though darling, won’t you?”

Merry looked round at her tiny attic bedsit, with its single bed and lone window giving a smeared outlook onto one of Oxford’s less attractive views. “Can I come tomorrow, aunty?”

Twenty-four hours later, Merry was blissfully wrapped in luxury in Venetia’s Maida Vale mansion block apartment. She lay back on the cream leather sofa and stretched out her long legs.

“This is nice,” she sighed, burying her toes in the thick carpet, which covered the floor of the glamorous sitting room. She looked around and admired the nineteen twenties polished cherry wood furniture. “It’s so nice to be warm for a change. I could get used to this. I like Big Barry.”

Venetia looked up from where she was pouring herself another glass of wine. “The doorman? He is a sweetie. A big fan of mine, you know.”

Merry regarded her aunt fondly. “Everyone’s a big fan of yours. Del sends his love by the way.”

Venetia had the grace to blush ever so slightly. “Such a sweet boy.”

Amused at the idea of Del being described as a boy, Merry snorted into her wine. He was in his mid-forties at least. “He’s married now. His wife’s expecting their first baby.”

Her aunt shook her head. “I wouldn’t have imagined him doing anything so conventional,” she said incredulously. “And how is that club that he runs doing?”

Merry yawned and tried to make an effort to be sociable. They’d just eaten a delicious meal, and she’d drunk most of the bottle of Merlot her aunt had produced. She was feeling very mellow. “He’s making a mint.”

“By that quaint expression, I assume you mean it’s doing well?” Venetia came to sit by Merry on the sofa.

“Yes Venetia.” Merry laughed and gave in. Her aunt was obviously in a mood to talk. “So why did you lure me over here?” She gestured to their surroundings. “Not that I’m complaining. This is heaven.”

Venetia smirked and Merry’s heart sank. She knew that look. It was the one when her aunt had A Plan.

“I’ve got A Plan,” Venetia said ominously.

Merry shifted uneasily. “I thought you might.”

“Do you watch Who Dares Dances, dear girl?”

Merry shrugged and shook her head. “What is it?”

Venetia tutted. “It’s a television programme.”

“Who Dares Dances? Sounds like something you have to paint your face green and wear camouflage gear for.”

Venetia looked mystified.

Merry waved her glass perilously. “SAS,” she explained somewhat obliquely. “Isn’t their motto, ‘Who Dares Wins’?”

“Very droll, my dear.” Venetia raised her eyebrows in an attempt to humour her great-niece. “It’s actually a sort of dance reality show.”

“Don’t watch much telly.” Merry yawned again. Her only thought was to get into the vast bed in her aunt’s spare room.

“Well, a weekly audience of three million viewers might disagree.”

Merry sat up and only just saved her glass of red from splashing onto the sofa. How many?”

“Three million. A week.” Venetia was satisfied she’d got her niece’s full attention now.

“F - I mean, blimey.”

“Quite. And just what is the capacity at dear Del’s club?”

“Two hundred and fifty – on a full night. About five, if they know it’s me on the bill. Three million though,” Meredith marvelled. “The power of TV, eh? But what’s it got to do with me?”

Venetia adopted an innocent tone. “I happen to know Bob Dandry who produces and directs the show. He rang me yesterday. One of their celebrity dancers has pulled out at the last moment, pregnant apparently.” She paused and then landed the final punch. “I rang him back this morning and suggested you.”

“What do you mean, you’ve suggested me?” Merry stared, slack-jawed, at her aunt.

“You are to report to Fizz TV Studios at ten o’clock on Monday next,” Venetia said, triumphant. “To do the ‘Big Meet,’ as I believe they so quaintly term it, with your dance partner.”

Merry tried to sit up straight, a difficult task on the slippery leather. “Venetia, what the hell have you done?”

“I’ve got you a job, darling. One even your parents won’t mind; they’re huge fans of the show.” Venetia raised her glass and then took a celebratory sip of wine.

Merry slid back down onto the leather. “Wha - what?” One word sank in.

Dance.

She was beginning to wish she hadn’t drunk so much. You needed a clear head to deal with Venetia in full sway. She sat back up again. “Dancing? Venetia I can’t dance!”

“My darling girl, if you ever got your head out from that Oxford scented cloud and into the real world, you’d realise that is precisely the point.”

“I don’t understand.”

Venetia looked down her long nose. “Patently.”

“I suppose it’s too much to expect you to explain?”

“Then I shall attempt to give you a potted history in popular culture,” she said and grinned malevolently. “More wine?”

After rising to pour another glass for each of them, Venetia settled back and launched into an explanation about the phenomenally successful Who Dares Dances, part reality show, part dance competition. She told a befuddled Merry that its last series, however, had been dogged by vote rigging scandals and a race row. How the new series was a much shorter one, a special six week run leading up to the annual comedy charity fundraising event in television, Jokes for Notes. Some contestants were to reappear, including winners of previous competitions. The emphasis, Venetia went on, with this series was to be on the money the show raised for its pet charity, Pennies for Pencils, by the public voting to keep in their favourite dancers.

“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.”

Bob Dandry barely came up to her shoulder. Merry looked down at him and smiled. He blushed an unbecoming puce and then, to her complete shock, put a sweaty hand on her bottom.

Merry pointedly removed it. Venetia was one hundred percent right about you, she seethed inwardly. “How kind,” she said aloud, through clenched teeth. “I’m dying to find out who I’ve got. This is such fun, isn’t it?” She gave him an especially warm smile, amused to see him simper and sweat even more. How Venetia would love to hear about this.

“We’re so thrilled you could join our happy band. Our family, as I like to think.” Bob leered some more. He looked around. “Ah! Your dancing partner is sitting on the steps over there. Daniel Cunningham – the one in the white jeans and leather jacket. Let me just organise the cameras. If you’ll forgive me Miss Denning, I’ll be right back.” He wiggled his fingers in a nauseatingly coy wave.