A Step In Time: A feel-good read, perfect for fans of Strictly Come Dancing!

I grinned at him.

‘It sucks, doesn’t it?’

He nodded.

‘So why don’t we get drunk and drown those sorrows?

He smiled back at me, showing straight white teeth in what was, I now realised, rather a handsome face.

See, I told Philip in my head, I am moving on.

While my companion ordered another bottle from the barmaid, I studied him. He was about as different from Matty as it was possible to be. Matty was swarthy with finely styled dark hair and – at the moment, at least – a beard. This guy was clean-cut with messy blond hair and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose. He looked like an overgrown and – I cast a sneaky glance at his arms – very buff teenage surfer.

‘Do you surf?’ I asked him suddenly.

He smiled wistfully.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I grew up in California. Everyone surfs.’

‘Really?’

‘Nah, not really. But I do. I miss it when I’m here.’

‘You should go to Cornwall,’ I said. ‘There’s brilliant surfing down there. I used to go on holiday there with my best friend’s family when we were kids. Maybe I’ll take you one day.’

‘I’d like that.’

Our eyes met for a fraction of a second too long, and I felt slight butterflies in my stomach. Moving on could be fun, I thought.

It didn’t seem nearly as much fun when I woke up the next day.

My head was banging, and there was sun pouring through the window, which seemed to be in the wrong place.

Cautiously, and without lifting my painful skull, I opened one eye. Yes, that window definitely hadn’t been there yesterday. I opened the other eye. Man, that sunshine was bright – it had to be late morning, possibly even lunchtime. I felt on the bedside table for my phone to check the time – but the table wasn’t there. Hold on. What was happening? I sat up, trying to ignore the hammering in my head and looked round me.

I was in a smallish attic room, with a fitted wardrobe and white walls. It had one large window – the one the sun was streaming through – and two smaller ones on the opposite wall. My Gatsby dress was draped over a chair but I couldn’t see my underwear. I had a quick check under the duvet. Nope. No undies there. I squinted in the sunshine and saw my knickers poking out from under the bed. Next to me, snoring loudly, was the blond surfer.

‘Shit,’ I whispered. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ This was not staying under the radar. I was so desperate to get off the endless treadmill of courting the showbiz media one minute, then having to avoid the inevitable press interest when things went wrong – and this was not the way to go about it. I tried to remember leaving the party and if there were any photographers there. I couldn’t recall being papped, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened. Judging by the horrendous hangover I was developing, there were bound to be bits of the evening I didn’t remember exactly.

I did remember telling Surfer Dude how Matty had cheated on me over and over and I’d lost the upper hand by whacking poor Kayleigh. I also recalled him telling me that Matty was an idiot and that he didn’t deserve someone as nice as me. Which I’d thought was just the most lovely thing anyone had ever said to me, so I’d rewarded him with a kiss. And then another one. And we’d carried on kissing all the way to Surfer Dude’s flat. Which must be near the theatre because we’d definitely walked there, but I had no idea where I was exactly.

And then we’d kissed all the way to his bedroom. And it had been really very nice. My head may have been banging but I had no trouble remembering that part of the evening. Carefully, I peeked under the duvet again. Surfer Dude was starkers as well. And rather magnificent he looked, too.

Focus, Amy.

So we’d had sex. That was fine. Perhaps not my classiest moment, but a completely understandable reaction to being cheated on. Best way to get over one man was to get under another, Phil always said. But now I had to get out of there without being spotted by anyone – I couldn’t risk more pics on the PostOnline’s Sidebar of Shame; I’d never work again. And I definitely had to leave before the whole awkward ‘I’ll call you’ thing happened. I felt a small pang of regret. He was really nice, Surfer Dude. If I’d met him at a better time, who knew what could have happened? But right now, I had to focus on saving my career. Sleeping with someone new wasn’t the best start.

Carefully I slid out of bed, picked up my dress and pulled it over my head. Then I went in search of my bag and shoes. They were in the lounge. I sat on the sofa – where I remembered sitting last night – and pulled on my heels, wishing I had my stolen Converse to put on instead. I was just checking I had my phone, my door keys and my purse when Surfer Dude appeared at the bottom of the stairs wearing a pair of shorts.

‘Doing a runner?’ he said with a grin. ‘I thought maybe we could hang out today.’

Don’t be nice to me, I thought. Please don’t be nice.

‘I’ve got stuff to do,’ I lied, trying to look apologetic. I blew him a kiss. ‘Thanks for a lovely night.’

I turned towards the front door, but Surfer Dude was too fast.

‘Was that a brush-off?’ he asked.

I paused.

‘I think it was,’ I said honestly. ‘Sorry.’

He grimaced.

‘Wow,’ he said. ‘You British girls are brutal.’

I felt a bit embarrassed.

‘Look,’ I said, knowing I was about to sound completely up myself and hating it. ‘I’m on TV – at least I was – and I’ve got an image that I need to protect. This was a mistake. I can’t be here. ‘

Surfer Dude winced.

‘It was a lovely night,’ I said. ‘Really. And I’m sorry.’

I pulled my dress down a bit so my walk of shame wasn’t quite so shameful (who was I kidding – everyone I passed was going to know what I’d been up to) and opened the front door.

It was only when I reached the street that I realised I didn’t even know his name.

Chapter Nine (#ulink_b341f45b-34df-5217-a0d8-b267e3806021)

Cora

The sound of a car door slamming stirred me from my doze in the armchair. I found that increasingly these days I woke very early then snoozed in my chair whenever I sat down. This morning I’d risen before six, made myself a cup of tea, and settled down to read a book. But I’d fallen asleep almost immediately. My tea was still warm, though, I thought, touching the back of my hand to my mug, so I hadn’t been dozing for long.

Ever the nosey neighbour, I rose from the chair to see who was slamming doors at this early hour. It was my new tenant – Amy. She was leaning into the window of a taxi, paying a fare. I watched as she handed over the cash, then turned away to go down to her flat. She was wearing a sparkly 1920s-style dress and in her hands she had a pair of high heels and a similarly sparkly clutch bag. She looked very beautiful, I noted, but very overdressed for a Sunday morning in Clapham. She’d obviously been out all night and I hoped she’d had some fun – she’d struck me as someone who was in need of fun when I’d spied on her the other day. I smiled as she tiptoed down the stairs to her front door. She definitely reminded me of myself, I thought once again. At least, she reminded me of the old me. The one I’d once been …

1944

I hurried through the camp, stopping anyone I recognised to ask if they’d seen Donnie. I had no idea where he’d gone. His friend, Paul, had told me he’d had a letter from home and had seemed upset. So now I was worried he’d had some bad news and I wanted to find him to see if I could comfort him.

I skirted the edge of a garage and came face to face with another of Donnie’s friends, Rog.

‘Have you seen Donnie?’ I asked.

Rog nodded.

‘Saw the back of his head,’ he said, pointing to a storage tent. ‘He was going in there.’