into laughter.
‘You probably shouldn’t be watching this,’ Carla told her, as they re-ran footage of Phoenix receiving their Ultimate Legend award. ‘It’s going to make you feel even worse.’
‘Not at all,’ Sadie shook her head, making no attempt to change the channel. ‘Looking at Nick Taylor always cheers me up.’
‘He is amazingly hot,’ agreed Carla. ‘Especially in that suit. I bet he’s a total bastard though.’
‘Just my type,’ grinned Sadie, as she raised her glass at the TV screen. ‘I wouldn’t mind trying to tame him.’
Carla smiled indulgently. Then the image changed again, and the tiny screen was filled with a full-length shot of Jenna Jonsson making her way into The Dorchester.
‘God, that dress is gorgeous,’ Carla enthused.
Sadie snorted. ‘She’s overdone it with the Fake Bake, though. I mean, no one can actually be that colour,’ she sniped, as she took another slug of vodka. She was 23, the same age as Jenna, and yet the differences between their lifestyles couldn’t have been more stark.
‘Hon, you’ve got to get over it,’ Carla pushed gently.
‘I can’t!’ Sadie protested. ‘You know that. However hard I try, I feel like that was my big chance and I missed it. I’ll just be stuck here forever. Ninety years old and still in this shitty little boxroom.’
Her dance career had hit a lean patch that seemed never-ending. A few months ago she’d landed an ensemble role in a West End revival of 42nd Street; it promised a one-year contract, a prestigious venue and fantastic exposure. Sadie was ecstatic. Then, two weeks into rehearsals, the company had gone bust and the producer had disappeared off the face of the earth. Since then she could barely get an audition, let alone a job. She’d been trying to cover her rent by doing promo work, which was badly paid and soul-destroying. You name it, she’d promote it, usually while trussed up in some ridiculous tiny outfit or freezing her ass off on a street corner handing out leaflets. It was hardly the glamour she was longing for.
‘Well, I’ll be stuck here with you,’ Carla tried to cheer her up. ‘Look at me – scraping by on the occasional bit of cruise-ship work, spending the rest of my time teaching yoga to a bunch of stuck-up, ungrateful bankers. And I’ve got a crap boyfriend,’ she admitted, in a rare moment of frankness.
‘At least you’ve got a boyfriend,’ Sadie muttered. Her love life was about as successful as her career – going nowhere fast. She seemed to attract a succession of bastards and losers and she was sick of it. She knew it was un-PC to admit it, but she wanted a real man – someone confident and successful who could take care of her. Gorgeously fuckable was always a bonus, too.
‘Oh cheer up,’ Carla teased her good-naturedly, as she poured them both another drink.
‘Make mine a triple,’ Sadie said morosely. Despite what Carla had said, Sadie couldn’t snap out of her dark mood. The image on the screen seemed to taunt her. Jenna Jonsson – young and beautiful, with the world at her feet. It reminded Sadie of just how far their lives had diverged.
They’d known each other vaguely for years from the dance circuit. They’d never been close – mainly because Jenna’s domineering mother, Georgia, kept her well away from everyone else, worried that befriending the others would dull her competitive instincts.
Then five years ago came the Nationals. They were both eighteen, both in their final year of eligibility for the competition. It was the break Sadie so badly needed, and she was prepared to do anything to win.
So, apparently, was Georgia Jonsson. Sadie had seen her prowling backstage, her stick-thin figure poured into a low-cut dress, her ash-blonde hair teased up into a voluminous chignon. In her day, she must have been stunning. Now she was mutton dressed as lamb.
Jenna took to the stage before Sadie, giving a competent performance that was nothing to write home about. Nerves had obviously got the better of her, as she made the occasional, well-covered mistake. But she looked fantastic, naturally, her blonde hair curled into ringlets and tumbling down her back, her revealing costume clinging to her newly acquired curves like a second skin.
Sadie had been so nervous she thought she might be sick. The venue was enormous, bigger than anywhere she’d ever performed. But once she hit the stage, the tension evaporated. It was as though her body knew exactly what to do and she let the sensations take over, a joyous feeling of freedom that she surrendered to completely.
Sadie had given the performance of her life. Technically she was perfect, but it was so much more than that. She danced with spirit and soul, her body moving like a dream. She blew the competition out of the water and she knew it. She could still picture it now – if she shut her eyes in the cramped bedroom she was transported back to that day, moving as though she was flying, her feet barely seeming to touch the ground. She’d been aware that no one in the room could take their eyes off her, the straight-laced judges in the front row captivated by her ability.
‘And the winner is …’
Sadie recalled lining up on stage with the rest of the girls, looking out at row upon row of expectant audience members. Her heart was racing, but she was confident. She wanted this so badly, she could almost feel the hot Los Angeles sun beating down on her body …
‘… Jenna Jonsson!’
Sadie gasped in astonishment. She remembered looking across at Dickie Masters, the head judge, with his shiny bald head and ginger moustache. He looked ridiculous – short and fat in a tweed blazer and crumpled trousers – as he beamed at Jenna, his jowly face so red it looked as if it was going to burst.
Jenna seemed to be the only person more surprised than Sadie. Her mouth fell open; her face was a picture of confusion as she stared across at her. Sadie found that she couldn’t meet Jenna’s eyes. She looked away, found a knot in the wooden floor and concentrated her energy on that. That way, she could pretend it wasn’t happening.
Jenna soon got over her reticence. She shrieked with delight, then burst into tears as they handed over the plane tickets. The next moment her mother was up on stage and they were posing for press shots with an enormous silver trophy. Jenna’s tears had been dried and she looked her usual radiant self, sandwiched between her mother and Dickie Masters. That was the last Sadie had seen of her – she and the other girls had been quickly shepherded off stage, expected to pick up their belongings and get out. Nobody loves a loser.
Back in the changing rooms, the others had commiserated with her, said they couldn’t understand what had happened. A few of them went further – thanks to her mother, Jenna wasn’t popular on the circuit and the bitchy comments flew. Then one by one they’d left, leaving Sadie sitting alone in the changing rooms. She felt dazed as she went over and over her performance in her mind. Was it possible she’d been wrong – that what she’d felt inside was so different to what the judges saw? But then why had everyone told her she deserved to win? It didn’t make any sense.
Gradually the numbness faded, replaced by a cold, hard ball of fury that began deep in her stomach and spread throughout her body. She should have won. She deserved it. No one had worked harder than she had and no one had given a better performance. So what the hell was going on?
Suddenly she jumped up, changing out of her costume in record time and snatching up her bag. She didn’t even bother to take off the heavy stage make-up, her face a riot of colour and sparkle as she raced out of the changing
