IS IT ALREADY A 'NO BALL' BETWEEN STRICTLY'S HOTTEST COUPLE?
For the MailOnline by R Skeeter
James Potter and Lily Evans might have wowed the judges—and the public—when they samba-d into our hearts in week one of the BBC competition, but rumour has it that these dancing divas do not get along. Sources close to the show say they've never seen such a strained relationship between celebrity and pro before, one even saying, "the bosses really thought they'd be TV dynamite, but they seem to hate each other!"
Potter may well be used to nothing but adoration in his role as England one day international and test cricket superstar, as well as being Yorkshire County Cricket's opening batsman, so it's perhaps no surprise that he can't cope with the antagonism coming from his feisty red-head partner. "He's used to women fawning over him," our source told us. "So this is a new experience for him."
Evans is known for her strict approach to training, but even for our resident Strictly Firecracker, she seems to be taking strictness to new extremes. Will this sizzling couple implode before they can even hope to reach the final? We'll certainly all be tuning in to see the fireworks…
In theory, Monday is supposed to be a training day, back in Pimlico, learning their new dance. They've been given the paso doble, and some new song that James isn't familiar with; he spends most of Sunday evening watching videos on YouTube of old contestants tackling the dance. This, as it turns out, does nothing to calm his nerves.
His nerves aren't helped by the fact that, instead of being in the dance studio, where he's supposed to be, he sees in Monday morning at the cricket nets. The England International coach, Alastor Moody, has made sure James understood what would happen if he misses the training session 'for a bit of bloody dancing'. Never mind the fact that the Ashes aren't until January. Moody doesn't believe in things like logic.
When James had shared this information with the Strictly team, expecting a swift chastisement, they were, instead, delighted. Which is why he glances over his shoulder during a break in batting practice to find a full camera crew filming his every move.
As if that isn't bad enough, the producers thought it would be great telly if Lily came along too—perhaps thinking she'd smile and cheer and whoop every time James hit a ball. Instead, Lily stands shivering under the cold grey sky, switching on a false smile each time the cameras swing her way before going back to something closer to homicidal venom when she's out of shot.
It starts raining mid-way through. Of course it does.
As the rain plasters his hair to his head, he glances over towards Lily again; she has all but cocooned herself inside her coat.
This isn't going to do much to fix their working relationship, he thinks.
He's not wrong. Lily arrives at training the next morning with a stinking cold, one she is more than happy to share with him.
Sirius checks in mid-week, bringing Remus with him, both delighted with the opportunity to laugh at their friend. "You were in the papers again," Sirius announces, sinking onto the sofa next to James. "Apparently you and Evans are at defcon four."
"Is that the worst one?" James wonders tiredly; he's staring up at the ceiling, too weary to lift his head and actually look at his mates. "Or the best one? I can never remember."
"No need for you to have to remember, Prongs," Remus points out kindly.
"Worked out why she hates you yet?" Sirius asks. He's far too pleased with the whole situation. James makes a point of never making Sirius that happy, if he can help it: it only ever results in his own suffering. "Do you think it's 'cause of that stupid thing you do with your hair?"
"Maybe it's because of how sportspeople are irritatingly competitive and can't let things go," Remus suggests.
"Or how you refuse to admit that Notting Hill is better than Love Actually," Sirius adds. "No matter how much of a national treasure Emma Thompson is."
"Okay," James frowns. "I wasn't looking for a list."
He knows Sirius is smirking, even without seeing his face. "Just trying to help."
A short pause; he's too wiped to say anything any quicker. "It has Hugh Grant dancing in it, Pads."
"Yeah, and a load of other filler shite!"
Remus sighs heavily. "Oh good," he says. "We're talking about the important stuff, are we?"
It's only a day until the live show; time moves in a way, lately, that makes no sense to James. One minute he's learning the dance, and the next he's expected to showcase it to millions of people. If his feet and legs didn't ache so fiercely, he might wonder if he'd slipped into some kind of wormhole through time and space.
They practise at the TV studio, no costumes, yet, and not even the band in place, but mainly so the cameras can work out where they need to be and when. Lily's cold has largely shifted, and he has the immune system of…well, someone with a fantastic immune system, so he's broken through the sneezing and sniffling and come out the other side. Victorious, and chugging orange juice like it'll save his life.
(This seemed to annoy her, given she was still relying on a box of tissues being nearby at all times. But he's used to annoying her, at this point.)
The music stops; a voice calls out, "hold it just there for a minute!", and he's left there in the middle of the dancefloor, Lily Evans pressed against him, her hand on his chest, his hand at the curve of her waist, and he doesn't know what to do.
"Erm," he says, and her gaze shifts up to his. This close, he can see each one of those long lashes that frame her annoyingly mesmerising eyes. Her body feels warm against his. He tries desperately not to think about the exact places where they touch. "Think we've got a chance?"
Her expression softens, so minutely that, if he weren't as close as he is, he might not have noticed. She draws in a deep breath, and he doesn't think about how that changes the pressure of her chest against his. He doesn't.
"I think we do," she replies softly. For a moment, he could almost forget that they're surrounded by crew members, by other dancers. It's just them, standing under a spotlight. "You're doing really well, James."
He's not sure how to respond, and by the time he's found something to say—something that won't be embarrassing, or send her fleeing—the producer is calling out again. "Right, let's run it again from the top, please!"
She looks away, steps away, and he's surprised by how much he cares.
Four eights—"you move like a natural!" Shirley declares from behind the judges' table—and the public vote them through to the next week. James feels amazed by the full-body relief he experiences as their names are called out in the results show, and all he can do is stand there, bewildered and delighted, as Lily beams and throws her arms around him.
The week starts better than the one before: no need to go to cricket training, and he even finds himself cheerily greeting the camera crew he finds at the dance studio on Monday morning. He's starting to get used to his every reaction being filmed. Maybe he should look into a career on the big screen—his mum says he has the face for it.
(Sirius says he has the ego for it. Twat.)
"Well," Lily says, once the cameras are rolling; they're sitting, ever so casually and not at all staged, on the sofa that sits temptingly at the side of the studio, as if they often start their days having coffee and a catch-up instead of launching straight into the complicated choreography he has to learn this time. "As you know, this week is Movie Week."
Movie Week, according to Euphemia Potter, is one of the best theme weeks of the lot, and couples have lived and died with the film they end up with. James isn't sure he cares too much, although it would be nice to look cool, if at all possible. He knows, after last week's cha cha outfit with bright fuchsia, skin-tight trousers, that looking cool is no guarantee.
"Yes, I can't wait," he replies, because that's what the producer told him to say. He is looking forward to it, but then, he's not sure that's theme-week specific. "What have we got?"
She smiles, something bright and warm and utterly distracting; it would be easier if she just hated him consistently. At least he wouldn't get so hung up on her smile, for fuck's sake.
"I think you'll like this one," she says, and pauses for effect. "It's Bond. Goldeneye. And we're doing a tango."
His gasp is both dramatic and a bit embarrassing, but he can't hold it in. "Hell yeah!" he grins. He can tell she's trying to squash down her own smile. "What a great film—Sean Bean as the villain? Iconic." He shakes his head. "Incredible."
The producer is beyond pleased with this reaction, enough that they pack up their cameras to "leave you in peace", promising to be back tomorrow to film some rehearsals. James is still parked on the sofa, grinning, as Lily turns back to him.
"My brother is going to be so jealous. We played the N64 game almost non-stop when we were kids."
"Maybe he'll come and dance with you," she suggests dryly. "Think he'll be any good at the tango?"
"I think he'd give it a bloody good go," James replies, and his smile only brightens. "Does this mean I get to wear a tux? Maybe hold a pretend gun?"
"Well it certainly won't be a real one," she says, shifting off of the sofa. "I don't particularly want to get shot on live TV."
"Does anyone?" he wonders.
"C'mon, then, Bond, stop prevaricating," she gestures to the dancefloor behind her. "We've got steps to learn."
He's never been so enthusiastic to practise anything before in his life.
Thursday sees them, camera crew trailing behind, visiting his parents. When he'd told his mum they were coming, she wasn't remotely surprised. "Oh, of course, the classic visit-home segment," she'd said with a sage nod. In the background of the Facetime call, his dad fondly rolled his eyes. "They like to show people getting back to their roots."
He refrained from pointing out that he doesn't really come from Yorkshire, that his roots are, presumably, in Devon where he was born, because when he's mentioned that before, they've got into a long, drawn out argument over what 'where you come from' really means, and he hasn't got that kind of time. Yorkshire is where his parents have lived for the past decade, so it's home.
It's cold and wet as they arrive on the outskirts of Sheffield, the sprawling Potter home looking cosy and inviting: but then, anywhere would, after several hours in a car with Lily, who—despite warming up a bit in the days prior—has been strangely quiet for the entire journey. He's not sure what he's done since they'd said goodbye at the end of training yesterday, because surely just going home to ice his groin and mainline ibuprofen wasn't something that should get him in trouble. She had been heading off to see an old friend of hers from home (it had surprised him that she'd told him this detail at all, given how she was usually less forthcoming), and seemed in a good enough mood at the time.
Apparently not. She hadn't even wanted to play I Spy as they'd hurtled up the M1.
"Darling!" Euphemia envelopes him in a hug as soon as he enters the house; it's not just for the cameras, either, because she's always this effusive. At least someone can be pleased to see him. "You made it!" She turns to Lily; clutches her hands as if they are joined in prayer. "So lovely to see you again, Lily. I hope my boy hasn't been too much of a pain?"
James isn't sure what to make of the look Lily sends his way: it almost seems unsure, a little sad, which makes no sense whatsoever. "He's been working hard," she promises his mother. "Don't you worry."
The crew set up in the living room, altogether too enthusiastic about the manor house aesthetic his parents have cultivated: roaring fire, a coat of arms (which James knows for a fact isn't their family's, not that his mum will hear anyone say otherwise) above one of the doorways, picture after framed picture of James and Sirius gallivanting in fields or engaging in a bout of one-upman-ship in one sport or another. "It's like a shrine," Lily says, seeming to forget, for a moment, that she isn't saying much today; apparently, the photos have ungummed her lips.
They sit on the sofa, her leg touching his, his arm draped around behind her—not around her shoulders, of course, that would be too much, but enough to look close, to look familiar—and he pretends as if this isn't the first time, outside of training or rehearsing or performing, that they've touched at all. The cameras film them chatting, laughing with his parents, talking about dancing and cricket and nothing at all; there are times when he thinks, idly and unhelpfully, that if it weren't for the camera equipment and Strictly crew and the runner making cups of tea, it would feel like he'd brought home a girlfriend to meet his family.
He has to stop that thought in its tracks. She seems to only sometimes tolerate him, and all the forced proximity and intimacy of dancing has completely fucked with his perceptions.
It's nothing. It's a whole lot of nothing.
The drive home is quiet, too, but a different kind of quiet. At one point, he glances over at her, at the way the oncoming headlights catch her face in passing, and wonders what it would be like if she actually liked him. If she didn't just tolerate him, but enjoyed his company.
She catches him in the stare, and he thanks the lord above and all his angels that it's too dark for her to see him blush. "Alright?"
"Yeah," he replies, because what else can he say? "You?"
"Yeah," she echoes, and holds his gaze for a moment. "It was…really nice, meeting your parents." She looks back out the window, and he thinks that's the end of their discussion, until a minute or so later, she speaks again. "You're not what I expected."
She says it so quietly, almost at a whisper, that it's a miracle he hears her at all over the car engine and the sounds of the road. He isn't sure what to say at first. "What did you expect?" he asks, eventually.
She's saved from answering that question by the driver pulling up outside her flat; she flashes him a brief smile, a murmur of "goodnight", and disappears from view.
He lays in bed that night, and wonders what her reply would have been.
ARE TENSIONS FINALLY MELTING BOTH ON AND OFF THE DANCEFLOOR?
For MailOnline by R Skeeter
Fans of Strictly have watched week by week as hot favourite James Potter, the cricketing superstar stud, and his professional partner Lily Evans get better and better—and their dancing journey has been made even more juicy by the contrast of their effortless chemistry on the dancefloor with their apparent ice-cold dislike of each other everywhere else!
But sources close to the hit show say that relations are thawing…and the heat is rising! "That chemistry isn't just for the cameras," one insider told us. "It's all anyone on the show can talk about. They're getting friendlier backstage, friendlier in the rehearsal rooms—the editors don't have to spend so much time trying to create a happier storyline. I swear, they're one dance away from doing the horizontal tango."
Both Potter and Evans are seemingly single, with the cricketer having broken off his long-term relationship with actress Florrie Fawcett last year. Evans' relationship status is more opaque; she has been previously linked to childhood friend, Tesla UK's Severus Snape, although the dancer has never confirmed or denied that their connection has ever been more than friendly. Snape, a giant in the tech world known for being Elon Musk's right hand man, hasn't been seen in the audience at Strictly at all this season, compared to previous years when he was there to cheer Evans on every week. Some say the relationship rumours, such as they are, started with him, and now he's seething with jealousy at what he sees between his paramour and her dance partner.
This columnist suspects it won't be long before the Strictly curse strikes again…and what a hot, hot, HOT way to do it! Watch this space, dancing fans…
