by Sandy Barker
‘Are you okay?’ he asks, a thick Australian accent the perfect addition to his ensemble. He is a few inches taller than me, has a lean build, a mop of floppy dark-blonde, slightly-too-long-but-actually-sort-of-gorgeous hair, large green eyes that peer at me with concern, and the most perfectly shaped mouth I have ever seen. Ever.
Ding dong! I never quite understood Bridget Jones’s reaction to seeing Mark Darcy at her parents’ turkey curry buffet―until now.
‘Er, yes, quite. Thank you.’
‘You sure? Your cheeks are bright red,’ he says.
Ding don’t! He’s probably trying to be nice, but I’m not one of those women who gets a natural blush of pink on the apples of her cheeks. When I blush―or flush, as in the case of a near-panic attack―my cheeks could be used to guide the aeroplanes landing at Heathrow. I press my palm against my left cheek―red hot. Just brilliant. If The Stag producers were going to be underwhelmed by me before, this could push them over the edge―or under it.
‘Can I get you some water? Do you wanna sit down?’ He looks around the Feed Your Mind lobby and indicates a row of fancy-looking but extremely uncomfortable chairs (I’ve sat out here waiting on Prue more times than I care to remember) and my feet are on the move before my mind catches up. I plonk onto one of the chairs while my rescuer approaches the reception desk, and focus on my breathing. In-two-three-four, out-two-three-four.
I watch the exchange at reception curiously. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but he seems to be gesturing far more dramatically than a retelling of my minor incident should require. The receptionist looks over at me, grimaces, nods curtly, and disappears―snarky little cow. Last time I was here, she was an intern whose sole job was to run to the nearest Costa four times a day for coffee―and she got my order wrong!
I glance at my watch. It’s a hair before nine and I hate to be late―Prue will be livid. But I can’t meet the producers when I’m this out of sorts. My rescuer makes his way back to me and cocks his head to the side. ‘You’re looking a bit better. She’s gone to get you some water―and to tell them we’re here.’
‘Sorry, that we’re here?’
‘Yeah. Turns out we’re both here for the same meeting. I’m Jack. I’m producing the show in Sydney.’
No, no, no, no, no, this cannot be happening. ‘The show?’ I ask weakly. Perhaps there is a slim chance that he’s talking about a completely different television show that just happens to have a 9am meeting scheduled with my editor.
‘Yeah, The Stag. You must be Anastasia, right?’ I stare at him, mouth agape. ‘But hey,’ he lowers his voice ‘that’s not your real name, is it? I mean, I know “Blabbergasted” is made up―clever name, by the way―’ I’m frowning at him, a mix of disbelief and mortification, but he trundles ahead with our one-sided conversation as though I’m doing my part. ‘But what about Anastasia? Is that really you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I just meant, what should I call you?’ he asks.
‘What? Call me?’
‘Yeah―you know, when you’re on the show?’
And then it strikes me.
Despite being caught in the lift doors, the near panic attack, and the inability to utter one audible indication that I have a formidable mind, the producer of The Stag has not run for the hills. Instead, he’s taken it as a given that I will be on the show.
Apparently, I’m Stag material. And I don’t know how to feel about that. Should I be pleased or insulted?
‘Abby,’ I say, my voice barely above a whisper. ‘You can call me Abby.’
Jack smiles down at me. ‘Abby, nice,’ he says simply.
‘They’re ready for you,’ says the receptionist, still riding her wave of superciliousness. ‘And here.’ She holds out a bottle of water, and Jack takes it from her and loosens the lid before handing it to me. It’s a small gesture, but thoughtful, and I file it away under ‘attractive and nice’.
‘Thank you,’ I say. I take a sip, swallow, and follow up with a slow, deep breath.
‘You right now?’ he asks.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘We should probably get in there then,’ he says, smiling.
‘Oh, right,’ I say, standing and smoothing down my dress. Even though I’ve been dreading this meeting for two days, I sense that having Jack there will make it all right, like I have an ally of sorts.
When we get to Prue’s office, Jack pushes open the giant glass door and stands aside to let me pass. I’m basking in the glow of his lovely manners when I come face to face with a stout, sour-faced woman who eyes me up and down so mercilessly, I nearly turn on my heels and leave. No preamble, no ‘hello, nice to meet you’, just raw, naked scrutiny―she’s a rancher and I’m a prize mare. It gets worse when her eyes narrow slightly as she scans my face and hair, then turns to Prue and says, ‘I see what you mean about the makeover.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ my mind screams.
Jack rallies, standing by my side as he makes introductions. ‘Roberta, this is Abby. Abby this is Roberta, the executive producer of The Stag.’
Right. So, this vile woman is the one who emailed Prue about my post, the one who hired Jack, and the one who (apparently) wants me to appear on the show as a Doe. So far, it is a big fat ‘no’ from me―as if the choice is mine. But if she keeps scowling at me like that, her lips pursed into a pallid cat’s bottom, I may not need to worry. She certainly doesn’t appear keen on me.
‘Hello,’ says Roberta. A tiny part of me is impressed. I had no idea that a cordial greeting could carry so much disdain, nor that it’s possible to speak through pursed lips.
‘Hello,’ I say back, meeting her unwavering gaze. I may be wearing borrowed shoes, but I am a very clever woman and I write witty repartee for a living. I will not be intimated by this woman, even if she makes Prue look like Mary Effing Poppins.
Speaking of … Prue leaps up from behind her desk and comes to stand with the rest of us. I suppose, looking in, we might appear as though we’re about to clasp hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’ or something. It’s already the oddest meeting I’ve ever had and we’re only two minutes in.
‘And you must be Jack,’ says Prue, reaching her hand across the circle. He shakes it and does a good job of behaving normally, despite the odd start to our little gathering.
‘Yeah, I’m Jack. Good to meet you, Prue.’
‘Roberta has told me excellent things about you,’ she gushes, her mouth doing something I’ve never seen before―smiling. I’m suddenly struck with the realisation that Prue does have a chink in her armour, after all―and it’s attractive, younger Australian men.
‘So, now that we’ve all met, how about we sit down and discuss this incredible opportunity for Feed Your Mind? And for Abigail, of course,’ she adds quickly. She indicates the sitting area of her office, where a two-seater sofa faces two side-by-side armchairs, a low coffee table in between.
Still reeling from Roberta’s insult and even more so from seeing this unexpected side of Prue, I head straight to the sofa and collapse onto it. Jack sits next to me, the fabric of his jeans pressing against my bare thigh. I tug at the hem of my dress and wiggle away from him as surreptitiously as I can, breaking the contact. I do not need my tell-tale cheeks betraying how much I already like him―or how good I think he smells. It’s like a freshly dried cotton sheet when you retrieve it from the washing line after a breezy, sunny day.
Roberta sits directly opposite me and looks me over again. ‘There’s enough to work with, at least,’ she says tartly. High praise from Vile Demon Woman―huzzah!
Prue claps her hands together―another oddity―and says, ‘Excellent. And as you know, Abigail is quite the writer. Having first-hand experience of all the behind-the-scenes machinations, she is bound to do a fabulous job of recapping the upcoming season.’
I glance over at Jack and we share a quick smile. His says, ‘This is going to be great.’ Mine says, ‘I have no idea who that woman is that’s body-snatched my ed
itor.’
Roberta, however, doesn’t seem to be listening to Prue. ‘So, now that I’ve seen what we’re working with―and that with a little spit and polish, you’ll do―here’s the run down. We start shooting the next season in September. You’ll need a work visa for Australia and Jack will help you sort that out. You’ll be on the show as yourself, of course, not Anastasia. And we will guarantee that you get to the top four Does, so you get a decent look behind the scenes, so to speak. And for the rest of the details, we can hammer those out at a later point, don’t you think?’
I know the question is rhetorical, but no, I do not think. I want to know right this minute every single detail of this … this … My mind wants to grasp onto words like ‘adventure’, ‘escapade’, or ‘jaunt’, but settles on ‘utter debacle waiting to happen’. And first and foremost, I will absolutely not be going on the show as myself.
‘Er, no,’ I say, lifting my chin to show how profoundly serious I am.
‘I’m sorry?’ says Roberta in that passive-aggressive way that we British have perfected. She’s clearly not sorry about anything at all.
‘First, I am not comfortable with committing to the show until I know exactly what it entails.’ I’m bluffing, of course. This is a mandate from Prue and my job depends on me consenting, but I’m betting on Roberta not knowing that.
‘And second, if I do decide to go on the show, I’ll want a pseudonym. There is no way I’ll agree to be a Doe as Abigail Jones. I write under that name, my name.’ Prue knows this, I’m sure, although she’s never raised it with me. ‘There aren’t many pieces out there―yet―but I want an Abigail Jones byline to mean something.’ What I don’t say is that I want my name to mean, ‘serious investigative journalist’ and ‘brilliant writer’, not ‘dolly bird who went on The Stag for a free trip to Sydney’.
In my periphery, I see Prue look between me and Roberta, her eyes popped and her mouth agape, but I keep my eyes locked on my adversary’s. Prue may kill me later, but right now, I’m standing my ground. And I’m not sure where this confidence is coming from―perhaps it’s due to Jack’s steady presence beside me.
‘I see,’ says Roberta through her teeth. Though, I doubt she does. She seems like the type of woman who surrounds herself with sycophants who wouldn’t dare contradict her. The silence fills the room with a thick tension as we eye each other across the coffee table.
Prue starts to speak―likely to intervene and assure Roberta that I’m only joking―I’m not―but Roberta raises a hand and silences her, as though she’s Obi Wan Kenobi. ‘This is not the Doe you are looking for.’
‘Fine. You can have a pseudonym.’ A win! ‘But you’d best choose something close enough to your real name that you answer to it instinctively. It can be a little obvious otherwise―believe me. And I will not go down that path again.’ My mind starts scanning over past seasons of the show, wondering which Does had false names.
‘How about Abby?’ asks Jack. I abandon my mental audit of Does and turn towards him. He’s looking at me, those green eyes showing kindness and good humour, and I could absolutely get lost in them if we were somewhere other than my editor’s office in this bizarre meeting. Instead, I latch onto what he’s said.
‘Abby,’ I say, trying on my own name for size.
‘Yeah, that’s how you introduced yourself to me. And it’s common enough―so is “Jones”. Even if someone did find out your last name, it’s unlikely they’d make the connection.’
‘I like it.’ He grins at me and I grin back.
‘If you two are finished, I have somewhere else I need to be in twenty minutes,’ says Vile Demon Woman.
‘But what about everything else, all the other details?’ I ask.
Prue leaps into the conversation with, ‘Oh, I am sure it will all be fine, Abigail. It’s such an incredible opportunity.’ I’ve worked with her long enough to listen between the lines, and her pointed tone says everything her words don’t. This is an incredible opportunity for Feed Your Mind and I am skirting the edges of ruining it.
Though, if I do want to play the ‘what’s in it for me?’ card, I suppose I could write about the ‘reality’ of reality television. Roberta has already alluded to some of the cast members playing characters―or at least, alternate versions of themselves. There may be a story there, and likely that’s just scratching the surface.
Roberta stands and Prue shoots lasers at me from her eyes―the kind that say, ‘She’s about to leave and your job is on the line, so hurry up and lock this in.’
‘Well, as it is such an incredible opportunity and we’ve sorted the matter of my name,’ I say magnanimously, ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Excellent. I’m pleased to hear that, Abigail,’ says Roberta, her tone a complete about-face. She punctuates her words with the fakest smile I have ever seen―and that’s after watching hundreds of episodes of reality television. This tactic probably works for her more often than not, but I think I just got the opener for my exposé―producer and Vile Demon Woman, Roberta Whatsername, wheedles her way through casting sessions, alternating between bullying and placating.
‘And Jack can fill you in on anything else you want to know,’ she adds, sweetening the pot. And I won’t lie, learning that I get to spend more time with Jack is the only good news I’ve had since Prue called me on Saturday morning.
Roberta turns to go and Prue scrambles to her feet. ‘Let me see you out, Roberta,’ she says, her voice dripping with niceness.
Roberta purses her lips in reply, then turns towards the door. ‘Jack, Abby,’ she says over her shoulder, a dismissive goodbye. Prue follows her, full grovel mode activated and at their departure, the air in the office goes from stifling to normal.
‘You did great,’ says Jack.
‘Really?’ I’m not convinced. The whole thing was over practically before it started and no doubt, I will spend hours agonising over what I should have said and done.
‘Yeah, for sure. I’ve worked with Roberta on a few projects, and I’ve never seen anyone stand up to her like that.’
‘Don’t you?’ I ask.
This incites a full-throated laugh, then, ‘God no. These gigs pay good money and until my brother and I have our own production company, I do as I’m told. Yes, Roberta, no Roberta …’
‘Three bags full, Roberta,’ I say, completing the sentence.
‘Exactly.’ A frown scuppers across his face. ‘I hope you don’t think any less of me for it.’
‘No, not at all,’ I say, only realising the truth in my words as they leave my mouth. No matter how he earns a living, it’s clear that he and Roberta are cut from very different cloths.
‘Good, I mean, it really is about the money for me. Harry―that’s my brother―we’ve committed to saving as much money as possible―at least for the next year or so and then we’re hanging out our own shingle. We want to produce―films mostly. There’s a great indie scene in Australia, and we know heaps of actors, directors, writers … It’s gonna be amazing, but right now, we’re just putting our heads down and taking the highest-paying gigs we can get.’
‘I understand―truly. That’s like Anastasia for me. She pays the bills―and earns me enough to save a little―but I don’t love what I’m doing. Not yet anyway. It’s a means to an end, that’s all, just like this show is for you.’
‘You really do get it,’ he says simply.
‘I really do.’
‘Sooo,’ he says, breaking into a smile and waggling his eyebrows, ‘you’re gonna be on The Stag!’ I utter a guttural ‘ugh’ and he nudges my arm with his. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be great. Sydney’s amazing, and you’ll get to live in a mansion …’
‘With a dozen other women. And isn’t it dormitory style?’
‘Uh, yeah …’ He shrugs. ‘Still …’
‘Honestly, Jack, this all makes me feel a bit sick.’
‘I get it. Look, how ’bout we go grab a coffee or something and you can pick my brain?’
‘Rea
lly? Because I want to know everything―exactly what I’m signing up for, the logistics, how you see the subterfuge playing out … especially that. That’s the part I’m most worried about.’
‘Then I’m all yours.’ If only that were true. ‘You can ask me anything.’ Oh, if only that were true. If it were, I’d ask, ‘Can’t we just forget this bonkers plan and run off to Greece for a holiday instead?’
What I actually say is, ‘All right. That sounds good.’
We share another smile and just as we stand, Prue marches back into her office. ‘Abigail Jones, what in the hell were you playing at?’
I glance at Jack, catching his surprise. ‘You see?’ I say with my eyes, ‘This is the real Prue.’ It must have been exhausting being as charming as she was for the entire duration of our micro meeting. I have no time to respond to her, however, because she launches at me with, ‘You came remarkably close to ruining everything. How dare you put me on the back foot like that.’
Her bony forefinger aims right at me and, like a pin, it pricks my defences. ‘You’re right,’ I concede―because she is.
Well, that takes the wind out of her sails. ‘Oh,’ she says benignly, followed closely by, ‘Good, yes, quite right.’ She skirts around her desk and sits primly on the edge of her office chair.
‘Shall we go, Abby?’ asks Jack, like we’re late for a reservation or something.
‘Absolutely, yes. Jack is going to answer all my questions about the show,’ I say to Prue.
She nods. ‘Very good. And, Jack, I imagine you will be in touch about Abigail’s work visa?’ she says pleasantly―the same woman who just chewed me up and spat me out right in front of him.
‘Sure thing, yeah.’ He shepherds me through the door, his hand lightly touching my back and for the first time today, I’m glad to be wearing a thin silk dress. When we’re out of earshot, just near the lifts, he whispers to me, ‘She’s almost as bad as Roberta.’
