Page 20 of The Dance Deception
I click on one of the links. Close-ups of our faces leap off the page alongside more dressing room images. They’re blurry, but it’s pretty obvious what’s going on. I start reading.
“Fire on the Dance Floor couple Merle Picard and Kate Wareing are sizzling off the dance floor as well as on it. Their chemistry was undeniable during their steamy kizomba on tonight’s opening show, leaving fans wondering if the pair have become more than just dance partners.
“And it seems the passion we saw in their performance is mirrored off-stage. The couple, whose sultry dance bagged them a near-perfect score and secured them a place on next week’s show, made little effort to hide how they feel about each other as they got hot and steamy in the dressing room ahead of their performance. They were spotted looking very close just moments before they walked onto the dance floor and …”
‘No,’ I gulp. ‘No, no, no.’
I click on the next story and it’s more of the same. And the next. Those same photos are everywhere – Merle from behind, topless, me leaning back with my catsuit folded halfway down and my legs round his waist, his hands on my boobs, my face tipped back but clearly identifiable.
‘Jesus, Kate!’ Lucy exclaims. ‘Your mum’s going to see this.’
‘Everyone’s going to see this,’ I panic, dropping my phone on the table and taking a large gulp of my wine. ‘I don’t know how it could have happened. We would have noticed if someone was filming us. It’s impossible.’
But then I remember the door hadn’t been properly closed when Olivia came to tell us it was time for the show to begin. Someone must have stuck their head in before that and we were so busy we didn’t even notice.
‘I can’t believe this is happening.’ I drop my head into my hands. ‘I’ve got to speak to Merle. I don’t know what he’ll be thinking. We might get kicked off the show.’
‘You’re not going to get kicked off the show,’ Lucy soothes as I grab my phone again, scroll down to his number and hit dial. ‘It’s only a few photos.’
But Merle doesn’t answer.
‘Come on,’ I plead, feeling increasingly anxious, but after two more tries he still doesn’t pick up.
I switch to WhatsApp and notice that the number of messages waiting to be read has doubled, but none are from Merle.
‘CALL ME!’ I type, swigging more wine.
I flick back to the first news story and scroll down to the comments below it.
“Lucky cow”, “He’s so fit”, “I’d definitely go there”, people have written. The sentiment seems to be the same from most of the commenters.
Then … “I feel sorry for his wife.”
And the room screeches to a standstill. His wife? Merle,who I’ve just spent all week getting intimate with, has awife? I suddenly feel even queasier.
Seeing the rest of the colour drain from my face, Lucy takes my phone to see what I’m reading. ‘Oh boy. That complicates things.’
‘I didn’t know!’ I wail. ‘He never mentioned anything about a wife.’
I hadn’t even thought to check whether he was actually single. Why hadn’t I thought to ask him?
‘It might not be true,’ Lucy says, the voice of reason. ‘People write all sorts of things in these comments. It might just be someone trying to stir up trouble.’
I hope to God she’s right. The photos are bad enough, without this on top. But tears pool in the corners of my eyes as a growing sense of dread creeps over me.
‘Hey!’ Aiden shouts at a neighbouring table, making me jump. One of the girls is filming us on her phone, but she puts it away when Aiden stands up as if he’s going to go over and confront her.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Lucy mutters, taking in the distraught look on my face.
We don’t even finish our drinks before we head for the door.
As we weave between the tables, it feels like every single person we pass is undressing me with their eyes. It’s all I can do not to break into a sprint.
The chatter behind us seems to double in volume when we reach the door and I’m certain it’s me they’re talking about. I don’t think I’m ever going to live this down.
Aiden orders us an Uber and when it drops us off atthe flat he doesn’t come in. He knows I need Lucy to myself for the rest of the evening. She pours me a large glass of wine as I stare at the news stories on my phone and freak out about all the people who will have seen the photos. Never even mind all the total strangers, what about my friends and family? What about the other contestants? What are they all going to think?
The WhatsApp messages are really mounting up, but I can’t face looking at them. I’ve never been more humiliated in my life. Lucy tries to convince me it will all blow over and that everyone will have forgotten about it before the week is out, but I can’t be placated. I’m too busy going to pieces.
