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

‘Right,’ he said, kissing my nose.

But I wasn’t convinced. Phil had been my rock for years. My best friend, my support network, everything. But since he’d met Bertie I felt like I had to fight for his attention and I wasn’t sure I liked sharing him.’

‘So what are you going to do?’ Phil asked again. ‘Can I help?’

‘Would you?’ I asked, flashing him my best, most beseeching smile.

‘What do you need?’

‘Well, first I need to go and get all my stuff from Matty’s. The only clothes I’ve got are what I had at work – and I’m running out of knickers. But I can’t face him on my own, so will you come with me? Please?’

Phil put his arm round my shoulders again.

‘Of course,’ he said, kissing the top of my head. ‘I’ve got a few things I’d like to say to Mr Matthew actually.’

I grinned. Phil was always fighting my corner.

‘And then, I need you to help with one more thing,’ I said. ‘I need to choose a reality TV show. Babs reckons that’s the best way to get the public back on my side.’

Phil, who, if he ever went on Mastermind, would choose the specialist subject Reality TV 2000–2015, gave a deep, satisfied sigh.

‘She’s right,’ he said. ‘She’s completely spot-on. Ooh, she’s clever.’

‘She should be,’ I grumbled. ‘I pay her enough.’

‘So which show?’ Phil said.

‘I convinced her to let me choose,’ I told him. ‘Babs reckons she can get me on anything. You know what she’s like – she knows all the right people. I’m just not sure it’s the right thing to do.’

Phil looked at me appraisingly, his head tilted to one side. Then he nodded.

‘Of course,’ he said in delight. ‘It’s perfect.’

‘What?’ I said, suspicious of his gleeful expression. ‘What are you thinking? Not Drag Race?’

Phil gave a chuckle.

‘No,’ he said. He pushed his thick-rimmed glasses (just for show – they had clear lenses but he thought they gave him a geekish charm, and he was right) up his nose and pulled me to my feet.

‘I’m thinking you in a tiny bikini, tanned, skinny, bravely carrying on without Matty, perhaps flirting a little with another similarly tanned young, male TV star, and showing the legions of Amy fans – and those who dared to be Amy doubters – what a game old bird you are.’

‘Ohhhh,’ I breathed. ‘You mean the jungle?’

‘The jungle,’ Phil said. ‘It’s perfect.’

I thought about it.

‘I’d be away for weeks – so no paps chasing me the whole time,’ I said. ‘Lots of time to think, to work out what I want to do next …’

‘And you look smoking hot in a bikini,’ Phil said.

I made a modest face. I knew he was right.

‘You’re strong because you work out, like, all the time, you’re sporty and adventurous, you’re funny, you’re kind … you’re bound to win.’

‘What about my hair extensions?’ I said, holding up a strand of the brunette locks that were my pride and joy.

‘They’ll have to come out,’ Phil said, grim-faced. ‘Better to do it now, so people get used to seeing you without them.’

I nodded.

‘I can do that,’ I said. ‘New hair, new start.’

‘So ring Babs and tell her,’ Phil said. ‘Do it, do it now.’

‘Okay, okay,’ I giggled, pulling my phone out. ‘I’m doing it.’

I found Babs in my contacts, and waited for her to answer.

‘Voicemail,’ I said. ‘She must be on the tube … Babs, it’s Amy. The jungle. I want to go to the jungle. Call me back.’

As I ended the call, there was a ring on the doorbell of the shop.

‘I thought you were closed,’ I said to Phil.

He frowned.

‘I am,’ he said. ‘Oh, balls. I’d forgotten about her.’

‘Who?’ I said. ‘What?’

‘Natasha Lucas,’ he said. ‘She’s a fashion editor.’

‘A journalist,’ I shrieked, diving off the chair and under the table so she wouldn’t spot me through the glass door.

‘Relax Princess Di,’ Phil said with a smile, waving at the woman and going to open the door. ‘She works for Society magazine. She only cares about toffs. She won’t have a clue who you are.’

‘She might,’ I said frostily, crawling out from under the table. ‘You’d be amazed how many people watch Turpin Road.’

‘Darling Natasha,’ Phil said, throwing open the door. ‘Come in!’

In came a tall, willowy blonde woman in her early forties. She had her hair in a neat twist, and she was wearing a classic tan mac, cropped white trousers, nude sandals and a striped blue-and-white scarf. I instantly felt cheap and scruffy in my baggy jeans and hoodie.

‘God, Phil,’ Natasha said, throwing her oversized bag onto the chair next to me. ‘I am having such a day. Sorry to be so late – and looking such a mess.’

I raised an eyebrow and Natasha noticed me for the first time.

‘Hi,’ she said, sticking out a hand for me to shake. ‘I’m Natasha.’