I t was an invitation I accepted in a moment of madness – and, over the next three months, regretted many times a day. I was in over my head, often with my heels literally over my head: I’d signed up to appear on the Greek version of Strictly Come Dancing.
Dancing With the Stars, as it is called in Greece, follows the same format as its UK counterpart, with an identical studio, a matching shiny floor, even many of the same costumes that are hired out and circulated among the 70 or more international versions of the BBC show. Of course, it’s all in Greek – and in the season I took part in, Covid restrictions had been imposed, which intensified its strangeness.
I am British, but by the time of my appearance on Dancing With the Stars I had become a bestselling author in Greece. In 2010, my first novel, The Island, was adapted for a 26-part series, which achieved the country’s highest-ever ratings for a TV drama. In 2020, I was granted honorary citizenship by the Greek prime minister. All of this had made me a minor celebrity.
I never imagined the competition would be easy. The only woman older than me out of the dozen or so contestants was Bessy Argyraki, who had been a Eurovision entrant in 1977, while I was still at school. In the first week, when we found each other weeping in the ladies’, we became best friends. All the other women could do the splits, but we were still struggling to remember basic steps.
There were six weeks of training and preparation and we were in the rehearsal room every day – except one, when I practised at home using a video I had recorded on my phone. I was exhausted, bruised, living on painkillers and suffering intense aches and pains – side-effects not just of my new dance regime, but also of a drug I was taking after cancer treatment six months earlier. If I had wanted a challenge, to celebrate survival, I had found it. And more.
The fear of the first “live” show was beyond anything I could have imagined. I couldn’t eat for two days before and during the rehearsal I forgot almost every move. The director was unimpressed, the choreographer was disappointed and my partner was furious. The dress rehearsal was even worse. Meanwhile, the other contestants – lithe Olympic athletes, glamorous TV presenters, models and media superstars – effortlessly glided their way through their dances.
I knew all my Greek friends would be watching. The Sunday night slot was a popular one and Star Channel was one of the most highly rated commercial stations.
I watched from the wings as one couple after another scored almost top marks, then I went to get my hair done, which involved an industrial can of spray to stiffen it into a solid helmet. One of my fake eyelashes had to be re-glued to my eyelid.
I retired to my dressing room, popped some painkillers and watched the video of my dance over and over again, still trying to get it into my head. Then there was a sharp knock at my door. I pushed my bunioned feet into some pointy ballroom shoes and followed the production assistant towards what felt like the gallows. The props for our dance (an airport arrivals scenario) were being shunted into position. Suddenly, I heard the opening bars of our tune. This was it.
“Break a leg,” I said under my breath to my partner. “Skata,” I thought I heard him say back, which is the Greek “good luck” equivalent and literally translated means “shit”. Yes, I thought, it probably will be.
Almost suffocating in my body-hugging frothy tulle costume, I floated out across the stage. There was a warm ripple of applause and my mind was left behind – along with all the anxiety I had been holding. Muscle memory kicked in and my body had no need for instructions; it followed its own instincts, its own paths, taking me through a routine that I wasn’t even sure I had memorised.
My brain was quiet in those minutes. If for a second I had allowed myself to think: “What comes next?” all would have been lost. In my whole life, I had never abandoned the rational and allowed pure instinct to tell me what to do. It was a transcendental moment.
The euphoria arrived with the final note of the music. I was in a state of joyous disbelief. We had been step-perfect. We stood in front of the judges to listen to their compliments, but I took hardly anything in. Had that person they were referring to been me?
In the following weeks, there were a few more times when I was gripped by instinct and nothing else. Eventually, although I had technically become a better dancer, we were voted out. Perhaps the judges and audience could see that the surprise takeover of my mind by a greater force did not always happen. But in those precious moments, it had felt like magic.
The Wine-Dark Sea by Victoria Hislop is out now (Headline, £22). To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply
