Knock, knock, knock.
I ignored the knock on my door and carried on writing. This, however, didn't deter
them.
Knock, knock, knock.
Once again, I studiously ignored them. Yet again, a minute later, three more knocks came on the door.
I stopped mid-sentence and put down my pen. Who could that be, and why couldn't they read?
Whenever I was writing, I put a note on the front door of my thatched cottage stating "Do not disturb. Writer hard at work." At first, people ignored it, but my neighbours soon learned not to ask me for a cup of sugar when that sign was up. My responses to answering the door had rapidly become legendary in Avebury, and it took a while for people to realise that I was only like that when I was disturbed while writing.
Whoever it was this time was about to learn never to disturb me again.
I stormed down the stairs and yanked open the door. The guilty party surprised me somewhat.
"Angela! What are you doing here? And, more importantly, can't you read?" I fumed, pointing at the sign. "I'm in the middle of working out an idea for a new novel, and you decide to disturb me. I thought you would have a vested interest in me writing a new novel."
"Sorry, but something came up that couldn't wait. Come on, we're going to the pub."
"No. I'm working, or I was. Whatever it is can wait; inspiration cannot," I huffed, slamming the door.
"BELLA! This cannot wait. Get out here now!" Angela yelled, banging her fists against the door.
The neighbours thought I was odd already, and I dreaded what they must be thinking now. So I opened the door a fraction, and sure enough, there were lots of tourists staring at Angela. I wasn't as bothered about tourists staring as I was about a local peering through their curtains and seeing this row. "Do you have to make a scene? I live here, for God's sake," I hissed at Angela, and I started closing the door again.
Angela grabbed hold of the handle and stopped me closing the door by whispering threateningly, "If you shut the door in my face again, I swear I'll just yell even louder."
"Arghh! How can there be is so urgent anyway? You're publicising my book, not saving anyone's life!" I opened the door and let her in, better to have her in my home than have a public argument. "Wait a moment. Why couldn't you just pick up a phone and call me rather than driving all the way here?" Angela worked in London and had never come to visit me. I liked it that way. What had been so urgent as to get her to drive all the way down here?
"You unhook your phone and unplug the Internet when you write. I tried calling you and clearly, I didn't get through. Anyway, this kind of proposition requires a face to face meeting."
That last sentence filled me with dread. "Oh God, what proposition?" I groaned.
"I'll tell you once we've got a beer down you."
This cannot be good. "Angela, what proposition?" I asked desperately.
"Come on. The drinks are on me; which way to the nearest bar?"
"Seeing as you have already successfully disrupted my writing, and have, inevitably, left me with writer's block, and are taking me to the pub, I'll come with you, but this is a one-off," I warned. "The Red Lion, is just around the corner. You're going to stand out like a sore thumb. Want to borrow any clothes?" Angela was dressed immaculately like a London professional, as always, wearing a pencil skirt, blouse and jacket that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
She quickly looked me up and down before answering, "No."
I grabbed my converse trainers and a jacket and reluctantly joined her.
"Bella! Why are you here? When I walked past your house earlier, you had your 'do not disturb' sign up. Didn't think I'd see you for days."
"Hey Pete, this fool made the mistake of disturbing me. Hopefully, she won't ever do it again," I added, glaring at Angela. "Pete, can I please introduce you to Angela Weber? She is publicising my latest book." Angela reached over to shake Pete's hand. It was quite an amusing sight seeing daintily dressed Angela shaking hands with a burly biker dressed in ancient black jeans and a t-shirt that barely covered his beer belly.
"Nice to meet you, Angela. Any friend of Bella is a friend of ours," Pete said, looking Angela over. "So what can I get you ladies? Will it be the usual, Bella?"
"Yep, a pint of Abbot's. Thanks, Pete. What are you having, Angela?"
"I'll have a small glass of Pinot Grigio, please." Pete looked nonplussed at Angela's order.
"She'll have a small white wine, Pete," I translated. Was Angela deliberately trying to embarrass me? She was coming off as pretentious. It had taken me a long time to get accepted in this community and I didn't want Pete to think I was pompous, too.
Angela paid for the drinks, and we sat down at a table next to a window in my wonderfully traditional local. I savoured the taste of my Abbot whilst Angela sipped her wine looking slightly confused at my enjoyment of real ale. When will she accept that real ale is delicious and is not exclusively a man's drink? Next thing I'll discover is that she doesn't eat Yorkies because they have "It's not for girls" written on them.
"So, what is this proposition that I have to be drunk to even hear?"
"Before we get to that I've got some great news!" Angela squealed, "I can't believe you haven't noticed yet! Particularly with you having written a novel about an engagement ring!" And she shoved her left hand into my face. I focused and saw a big diamond on her ring finger. "Ben proposed!"
"Congratulations," I replied with real warmth, she truly loved Ben and had been with him for years. I'd never met him but whenever I saw Angela she frequently name dropped him. She was completely smitten.
I got up to give Angela a big hug and held my drink up to toast them, "To you and Ben."
"To Ben and I!" She cried chinking our glasses.
I hadn't had much experience with engagements, but I was fairly sure that convention requires me to ask how he proposed. "So, was the proposal terribly romantic?" I asked.
"Oh yes! He took me to The Ritz and we had a gorgeous three course meal." So far, so clichéd did he top it off by putting the ring in a glass of champagne? "I thought he'd propose then, but he didn't. Instead we went on a walk in St James Park and sat on the bench we always meet to have lunch. He got down on one knee and asked. It was perfect." Clearly Ben was much more romantic than I was giving him credit for.
"Sounds wonderful."
"It was…"
"When is the wedding?"
"June. We're getting married in my Dad's church; he'll be both the father of the bride and the vicar."
"You're a lucky woman."
"I am indeed."
All of this romance was difficult for me to take and in order to cope I had drunk the whole of my pint. "I'm going to get a top up, want one?" I asked Angela.
"No, I'm fine thanks."
When I came back to the table Angela's whole demeanour had changed and she seemed more serious and professional. It appeared that I'd finally find out why she was really there.
"Have you seen Strictly Come Dancing?" Angela asked carefully, eyeing up my drink, subtly hinting I should have some more. I took her advice and took a big swig. Mmmmm… .
"Yes, and I love it; the dresses, the dances, the men…," Strictly started off as a bit of a guilty pleasure, but after the first two series, I decided that I didn't care if people laughed at my love of the show. It is awesome, and they are missing out if they don't watch it.
"My fiancé." She giggled at getting to call him fiancé. "Ben, is working as a camera man on the show."
"Lucky him!" I interjected.
"One of the celebrities has caught glandular fever and has had to drop out. There is only a week and a half before the live shows start, and they really need someone to replace her. Ben suggested you, and the producers love the idea. They want you on the show."
What. The. Fuck? I reached for my pint and downed it in one. What other response was appropriate? I stood up and walked unsteadily to the bar to get a refill.
"You all right, Bells? You look like you've seen a ghost," Pete asked as he poured me another pint.
"Angela wants me to go on Strictly Come Dancing," I whispered, but my lips barely moved.
Pete guffawed, "Did you hear that, gents?" he asked the other locals in the bar. "Bella here is going on Strictly Come Dancing."
Laughter rang throughout the pub.
"I am NOT going on Strictly," I fumed in a stage whisper.
"Hey Angela, have you actually seen Bella dance?" Pete called from across the pub. "We had a Wurzel cover band here once, and Bella hit the scrumpy a little too hard. Seeing her dance to Combine Harvester was the highlight of the night. My favourite part was when she tripped over her own feet, head-butted Brian's glass and got covered in scrumpy. Such a shame we didn't film it." Pete mimed wiping a tear away as he retold the story of what would be the most humiliating moment of my life were I able to remember it.
"See, Angela? You may never have seen me dance, but I can assure you that I absolutely cannot dance. Two left feet does not adequately describe the true nature of the situation here."
"So what? You go on TV and make a huge fool out of yourself. It'll be forgotten in a few weeks; however, lots of newspapers, magazines and TV shows will want to interview you, and during these interviews, you can conveniently mention that you have a new book coming out in a couple of months. You'll be at the top of the bestseller lists." Angela may have a point; despite being a prize winning author, I had trouble getting my books the publicity they needed, which was why I had employed her in the first place. But was public humiliation worth it to sell a few more books?
"Angela, I'm a writer, not a dancer, and I'm definitely not a celebrity. What kind of people go on that show? Actors, musicians, sports people, models. They are all performers - people the public actually knows! I am a little known author who loves her privacy. I like the fact that I have never been stopped on the street by someone wanting an autograph, and I do not want that to change. I am not a celebrity, and only celebrities who go on the show."
"You'll become a celebrity. Who knew who Chris Hollins was before he won last year?"
"The people who watched BBC Breakfast knew who Chris Hollins was: he presented the sports. No one knows who I am, and I want to keep it that way!"
"Don't hide your light under a bushel, Bella. If you want your books to achieve the acclaim they deserve, people need to hear about them and about you."
"Bells," yelled Pete, "how about I do you a deal? If you go on Strictly, I'll get the whole pub to vote for you, and you'll get a pint for each point the judges award you. All three of them." He laughed heartily as did all of the other locals. Bastard.
"How exactly will my dancing help people read my books?" I asked Angela, which should stump her.
"They'll introduce you as an author, and Bruce Forsyth will be bound to make some cringingly awful joke about your writing. As I mentioned earlier, you'll also get lots of interviews on other TV shows to promote Strictly, and you just utilise them to promote your books."
"Wouldn't getting me onto Richard and Judy's book club be more successful publicity-wise?"
"Richard and Judy's TV show got cancelled, never mind the book club; how are you so far behind the times?" Angela asked.
"Okay then, the equivalent of the book club."
"There isn't any."
"There must be a far better way to advertise a book than by dancing. I'm a serious author; get me onto Radio 4's Bookclub."
"Strictly regularly gets eight million viewers; Radio 4's Bookclub will be lucky if it gets eight thousand listeners. Even if you don't get a chance to actively promote your book on Strictly, people will still want to know what you write and so they'll Google you. In case you haven't bothered to look at your own personal website recently, let me tell you that reviews of your books and links to Amazon are far more prominently featured than information about you."
"I would far rather be interviewed in my underwear by Jeremy Paxman than dance live on national TV."
"Paxman interviews politicians, not authors."
"Don't play dumb; you know exactly what I mean. I'm not prepared to humiliate myself on TV to promote my new book. There has to be better ways to do it."
"All right, if you won't do it for your book, do it for me," said Angela, changing tactics entirely and stopping me in my tracks.
"What?"
"I had to pull a lot of strings to get them to consider you. When Ben told me that someone had to drop out, I practically begged him to suggest you to the producers. You don't want to know what I had to do to get him to talk to them." Angela was right; I really didn't want to know what kind of favour Ben required her to return. "It would be so embarrassing to have to call them up and tell the producers that you won't do it. Please."
I was still unconvinced, so Angela changed her approach again.
"This isn't just about your career here Bella; mine is on the line, too. If this succeeds, I'll suddenly be in high demand as will you. I'll be with you every step of the way; I'll coach you through the interviews and make sure you don't do anything you don't want to. Please," Angela begged. I liked Angela and I had a feeling that if I was to do this I would need a friend.
"Well, there would definitely have to be a no-fake-tan stipulation in my contract. I will not allow myself to be bright orange ever, let alone on national TV." Why did I say that? It sounded like she had convinced me. Had she convinced me?
Thinking she was winning, Angela went for the romantic angle. "Bella, I bet in your heart of hearts you've always wanted to be one of those girls who gets whirled around the dance floor by one of those wonderfully muscled gentlemen, haven't you?" Angela had me on that one. I have had quite a few dreams about one dancer in particular, Edward Cullen, dancing the salsa, waltz and rumba with me. And some of the dreams did not end in a way that was, ahem, appropriate for before the watershed.
I drank some more of my beer as I thought. On the negative side, I was certain to make a massive idiot of myself; walking on a flat, stable surface was difficult enough without being spun in circles at the same time. On the positive side, I was bound to meet Edward Cullen. However, I would probably go bright red in the face, embarrass myself, and hide until I am inevitably eliminated. Also I wouldn't be able to drink in this pub again without someone reminding me of my humiliation.
I pick up my glass and find that it is surprisingly light; it appears that I've finished my beer. Perhaps I should have another one or two whilst I consider the "proposition"…
"Bella, you're going to fabulous on Strictly. You'll win it. I can feel it in my waters," slurred Angela, her arm around my neck as we supported each other on our stumble to my cottage.
"I don't want to know about your waters, Angela," I giggled, almost tripping over a paving slab.
"But trust me. You'll be great. I'll be helping you all the way with interviews and stuff. And Ben will be around as well. You're not alone."
"Thanks Ange, you're the best. Oh. We're here now." I riffled through my pockets and found my keys. After a good ten seconds I located the keyhole with my key and opened the door. "Want some water? We'll have hang-overs if we aren't careful."
"Yeah, a glass would be great." We drank our hang-over prevention water very quickly.
"Do you want me to set the spare bedroom up for you?"
"No, I'll be fine on the sofa." Angela began to walk towards the living room before turning around, "Oh Bella, they want to come here and film a few things tomorrow morning."
"Okay, thanks for telling me, Ange."
Angela collapsed on the sofa and started snoring almost immediately. I threw a blanket over her before blundering up the stairs. I dropped onto my bed and succumbed to sleep.
Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring.
God, what was that awful noise? I sat up quickly, and the room started swimming. My head throbbed. How much did I have to drink last night? Why was I drinking last night? I had intended to spend the day drafting my new novel, yet I think l ended up in The Red Lion.
Oh God, it was all coming back to me now: Angela, Strictly Come Dancing, real ale. I was so glad I said no to that ludicrous idea. I had said no, hadn't I?
Oh, it's a phone that is making that racket. Where the hell is it? It is 6.30 a.m. for fuck's sake; who in their right mind calls at this time? I scrambled around and finally located the phone.
"Hello?" I answered groggily, my raging hangover making even saying hello difficult.
"Is this Bella Swan?"
"Yes, and who is this at this ungodly hour?" I asked rudely. Hell, they woke me rudely.
"This is Marc Butler, one of the producers on Strictly Come Dancing."
"Oh."
"I assume that Angela Weber has told you that we need to come to Avebury today to film your introduction to your dancing partner. We'll need to do an interview to introduce you to the audience, and then we'll film you meeting your dance partner. I'm sorry for the short notice but we are working on a very tight schedule. We aim to be with you at nine a.m."
"Okay"
"I look forward to meeting you. I think you'll be an interesting addition to the show."
"Thanks."
"See you at nine."
"See you then."
Shit. What have I let myself in for? I don't even remember agreeing to this. I must've been really drunk last night.
I looked around my house and noticed that it really needs to be tidied up. Angela snored on my sofa. Shit. I peered into the mirror to see that I have that oh so attractive pulled-through-a-hedge-backwards look. I have two and a half hours to get myself and my house presentable, and I have a terrible hangover to contend with. Double-shit. Where did I put the ibuprofen?
A/N:
Avebury is a real place and one of my favourite places in the UK. .
Glossary of British slang terms, words, phrases and references that non-British readers may not be used to:
Bookclub: A Radio 4 programme that features book reviews and interviews with authors.
Glandular Fever: The disease that is called "Mono" in the US.
Jeremy Paxman: A TV interviewer whose no-nonsense approach makes politicians quake in their boots.
Pub: Slang for Public House, somewhere that serves alcohol. Like a bar but a pub will have a more traditional atmosphere and serve real ales and not cocktails.
Radio 4: A BBC radio station popular amongst educated people. Doesn't play music, instead has lots of spoken word programmes, like news, radio plays, documentaries and intellectual discussion programmes.
Real Ale: A beer brewed using more traditional ingredients and methods. Stereotypically drunk by men with big beards and beer bellies.
Strictly Come Dancing: The original Dancing with the Stars (it originated in the UK).
Scrumpy: Strongly alcoholic and sharp tasting cider from the (English) West Country. I dare you to try some, it's awesome (if you don't like your taste buds).
Watershed: The time after which TV networks assume kids will have gone to bed (generally 9 a.m.), and so swearing and sex is OK on TV.
The Wurzels: A British band that plays traditional(ish) music from the (English) West Country. You may know their single Combine Harvester. If you don't know it, look it up on Spotify or YouTube for a good laugh.
Yorkies: A crunchy English chocolate bar.