by Sandy Barker
I get out of the car while the driver retrieves my cases from the boot and look around. There are two large vans also parked in the driveway and half-a-dozen people, all dressed in black, buzz about with cables and equipment boxes―the production crew.
‘Abby!’ A familiar voice rings out and attached to it is a gorgeous man who induces tummy flutters. Jack, wearing a T-shirt that says, ‘FREE HUGS’, jogs down the front steps of the house and takes the handle of one of my cases.
‘Oh, I can manage,’ I say, even though dragging two cases up those steps might be a little tricky. I’m also wondering how many of those hugs I can request without seeming unprofessional.
‘Nah. Come on. I’ll show you around. Now, as promised, you’re the first Doe here―it’s a couple of hours ’til the others arrive,’ he says. This had been arranged so he can show me the Control Room and where I’ll write my recaps.
I call out a thank you to the driver and follow Jack, dragging my smaller wheeled case across the sharp gravel of the driveway―not an easy task and I’m glad Jack has come to rescue me. Oh, no, not ‘rescue’ per se … er, ‘help’―a much better word.
As I cross the threshold, it’s like stepping into another world―one of sharp angles and hard shiny surfaces, of glass and so much sunlight, I need to squint. Shafts of it pour into the house through skylights and windows. From the entry, I can see through to the lounge room, and the entire back wall of the house is made of glass―giant floor-to-ceiling windows that are concertinaed open. There’s a patio just outside the lounge room―though the line between inside and outside is blurred, as it’s been set up for indoor–outdoor living―then a lush green lawn slopes away to a strip of sandy beach and the water, where pinpoints of light bounce off thousands of tiny peaks.
‘Wowser,’ I say inelegantly. ‘I practically need sunglasses.’
‘Yeah, it’s bright in here―can be a nightmare for filming―but it’s nice, eh?’ ‘Nice’ is such an inadequate word, especially to describe this beautiful suburb and this spectacular house. Actually, even ‘beautiful’ and ‘spectacular’ won’t do. I’ll need to start brushing up on my superlatives so Anastasia can do Stag Manor justice.
‘The bedrooms are upstairs,’ Jack says. ‘Can you manage that one?’ he asks, pointing to my smaller case. ‘Or I can get one of the crew to bring it up?’
‘Jack!’ a man calls out across the patio. ‘Can you come down to the beach for a sec? I need your thoughts on the shot setups for the Pin Rituals,’ he says as he enters the house and crosses to us.
‘Yeah, sure. But first, this is Abby. Abby, this is my brother, Harry.’
‘Oh!’ we both say at the same time―a dual revelation that Jack has told each of us about the other.
Harry laughs. ‘Okay, what has he told ya?’
‘Only good things, I promise.’ Harry eyes his brother suspiciously, then breaks into a broad grin. When he smiles, the resemblance between them is remarkable, though Harry is a little stockier than Jack and his hair is darker. He’s also not quite as handsome―in my opinion, anyway.
‘Well, I’ve heard all about you too.’ He has? I’m desperate to know what ‘all about’ comprises. ‘Abby is brilliant, Harry, and so, so funny. She’s also gorgeous, a true natural beauty. When this show wraps up, I am going to sweep her off her feet and take her on holiday to the Maldives.’ I’m not sure why every time I dream about going on holiday with Jack, it’s to an entirely new location, but perhaps I should be writing these down―a bucket list of romantic getaways.
‘And listen,’ says Harry, lowering his voice. ‘It’s just me and Jack that know, okay?’ It’s immediately clear what he’s saying and I nod. Then realisation hits. This is real. I am in Stag Manor and in a couple of hours, the other Does will arrive and then I’m on. I’m Doe Abby at all times for the next eight weeks―except those times when I will be sequestered away working.
I gulp, but before I can dwell on my predicament, Harry claps his hands together. ‘Righteo. You right with your bags?’ he asks me.
‘Er, yes, thank you. Jack is helping me take them upstairs.’
‘What? This scrawny one? He can’t carry shit.’
‘Hey! Thanks a lot.’
‘Come on, race ya!’ Harry picks up the larger of my two cases by the handle and runs up the stairs, depositing it on the landing. ‘Told ya. Too slow, old man,’ he calls over the railing.
‘See what I have to put up with?’ Jack says.
‘Ah, ya love it,’ Harry mocks as he runs back down the stairs. ‘See you down at the beach―soon,’ he adds before exiting through the lounge room. I realise I’ve watched the whole exchange with a grin on my face.
‘So, now you’ve met my brother.’
‘He’s quite fun,’ I say, smiling at him.
‘Yeah, yeah, he’s the charming one. I know.’ Jack shakes his head and carries my smaller case upstairs. ‘Come on, I’ll show you to your room.’ I do like Harry, but he is not the brother who has charmed me. Though I say nothing, of course, and follow Jack.
The room I’ll share with Becca, one of the Australian Does, is halfway down a long hallway that has bedrooms on either side. The room is far more spacious than I’d imagined and even has its own en suite. We leave my cases for me to unpack later and go back downstairs, where Jack leads me outside to the annex, a detached section of the house where the Control Room is.
‘So, this is where the magic happens,’ he says, pushing the door open. He doesn’t seem to realise what that insinuates and as I cast my eyes around the large, but cramped room―a bank of monitors and a large screen on one wall and an array of film equipment covering every flat surface―my mind conjures a particularly adult magic moment starring Jack and Abby.
‘This is where we hold production meetings. It’s also where you’ll watch rough cuts of the episodes after Harry and I’ve edited them together―for your recaps,’ he says. Right, yes, recaps. The reason I’m here.
After I draft them, each recap with go to Prue and Vile Demon Woman (a.k.a. Roberta) for critique, and I’ll make revisions as requested. It’s the first time I’ve worked this way―essentially having a client as well as an editor―and it makes me a little nervous. What if my recaps aren’t up to scratch and Roberta sends me packing? Prue will be furious and my time with Jack will come to a screeching halt. He may not be interested in me romantically, but I can still be his friend, right? Right?
Next on the tour is the small room Jack’s set aside at the back of the annex for my writing―my little ‘hidey hole’―but he’s called away by an impatient Harry before he can show it to me properly. At least I know where to find it, along with a loaned laptop and a mobile phone for contacting Mum―and Lisa, if I can pin her down. The reminder that I’ll have some contact with the outside world for the next couple of months eases my nerves a little, and I head back to my room to unpack and wait for the other Does to arrive.
This is real. This is real. This is real.
For two hours, as I’ve unpacked, then explored the rest of the house, these three words have been on a loop in my mind, and my nerves are now cranked up to eleven. I need to distract myself and reorganising my bras and knickers isn’t doing the trick.
We were allowed to bring books into the Manor―up to five each―and I’m hoping the other Does will also bring some, so we can swap between us. I retrieve one from my cache of brand new romcoms and lie down on my bed.
Chapter One
* * *
Emmy-Lou didn’t think she could be any later for her blind date, having been delayed on both the bus and the tube, but now she’d gone and stepped in a puddle.
It’s no good. I feel for Emmy-Lou―there’s nothing worse than being on your way somewhere, already late, and having a minor disaster like a wet shoe―but I can’t concentrate, and I invert the book on my bed and look about the room.
There are two single beds, two bedside tables, two chests of drawers, one of which now holds my foldables and (organise
d by colour) bras and knickers, a wardrobe with sliding doors where I’ve hung my other clothes―and that’s it. Though the furniture downstairs is ‘luxury showroom’ ready, as that’s where the filming takes place, the furniture in here is flatpack. But it’s clean, the mattress is comfortable, and the bedding is soft. It’s ‘nice’―this time the perfect use for an otherwise banal word.
‘Oh, Abigail, what on earth are you doing here?’ I ask myself aloud. I’m now grateful I opted to use my own name on the show. Imagine if someone had caught me talking to myself using a different one―hardly covert. I expel a long sigh and before it comes to a satisfying conclusion, a voice echoes about the entry.
‘Bloomin’ ’ell, will you get a load of this!’ In the moment that follows, there’s a murmur of agreement and a random selection of exclamations.
They’re here. It’s showtime, Doe Abby.
I leap off the bed and go to the railing that overlooks the entry. ‘Hallo,’ I call down. Five faces look up at me and I mentally attach headshots and dossiers with the living, breathing versions. These are the other British Does―Tara, Daphne, Ellie, Tabitha, and Elizabeth. I have to pretend I don’t know any of this, of course, so I introduce myself.
‘I’m Abby. I … er … got here earlier.’ Bollocks. How did it not occur to me to have a reasonable explanation for arriving before the other Does? I’m already terrible at this. Deflect!
‘Er, the bedrooms are up here,’ I call down cheerily. In an instance of perfect timing, a production assistant arrives wielding an iPad like a clipboard to oversee their arrival and give out room assignments. However, there’s no one to help carry their cases up the stairs and Daphne, who Roberta has chosen as a potential Bride, makes no secret of her displeasure.
Not long after the British Does start getting settled―each in a different bedroom as we’re all sharing with an Australian―I hear the crunch of driveway gravel and peek out the window to see a large black minivan pull up. The Australians have arrived and I am about to meet my roommate, Becca. I put away my abandoned book in the top drawer of my bedside table and smooth the covers on my bed.
‘Holy crap!’ says one Doe as they enter the Manor―same sentiment as before, different vernacular. I return to my lofty spot to repeat my greeting, peering over the railing at six Does this time, and the same production assistant―I’ve learnt her name now (it’s Carlie)―runs through the same routine to get them all sorted and situated while I return to my room and wait for Becca.
‘Hey,’ says a beautiful woman from the doorway. ‘You must be Abby. I’m Becca.’ She drops her cases at the door, then crosses the room, holding out her hand to shake mine.
‘Hi. I’m Abby.’ She smiles at me and I mentally slap myself. She already knew my name―there was no reason to repeat it, but I am a little ‘Doe-struck’. No headshot, no amount of desktop research could have prepared me for the stunning beauty that is Becca.
She’s even more like a Victoria’s Secret model in person than she is in her photographs―tall, tiny waist, perfect C-cups, legs for days, flawless light-brown skin, cascading dark-brown curls, and a beautiful face, even sans makeup, as she is now. I also know that she’s studying for her master’s degree in data analytics at the University of New South Wales and from her warm greeting―no guile, no distaste when she laid eyes on me―she’s also friendly.
Becca is the total package and there is no way I will ever compete with her for the Stag’s heart. It’s a good thing I don’t have to.
Becca chats at me as she settles in, giving me her potted history―most of which I already know―and asks me questions which I respond to as ‘Doe Abby’. There is quite a lot of hullaballoo in the rest of the Manor―I can’t remember the last time I heard this much squealing and exclaiming―and I realise that it will be a long time before I experience solitude again―or perhaps even five minutes of silence. This is real. This is real. This is real. I exhale a long, slow breath to calm myself.
‘So, what do I do with these?’ Becca asks, indicating her empty cases.
‘Oh, Carlie will come collect them. They go into storage while we’re here, so they’re out of the way.’
‘Cool. So, should we go check out the rest of the house?’ she asks excitedly.
‘Er, yes, absolutely.’
We’re on the landing when we hear it―crying coming from one of the water-facing bedrooms further down the hallway. Becca and I exchange a quick look and change direction away from the stairs. When we get to the door of the room, it’s ajar and I poke my head around it.
It’s Elizabeth, though I haven’t officially met her yet. She’s sitting on the end of her bed, her head in her hands, and appears on the brink of a full-blown proper cry. Becca pushes the door open and we both go to her, kneeling on the floor.
‘Hey, are you okay?’ Becca asks. I know it’s the thing you say, but it occurs to me how odd it is to ask when it’s plainly not the case.
Elizabeth shakes her head. ‘I can’t believe I’ve done this,’ she says, her voice muffled.
‘What, come all this way to spend weeks locked up in a fancy dormitory with strangers, so you can meet another stranger, hoping he’ll fall in love with you? That?’ I ask.
It does the trick. She coughs out a laugh and lifts her head, her blotchy, tear-stained face breaking into a smile.
‘Yes, exactly that.’
‘Here,’ Becca retrieves a folded tissue from her jeans pocket. ‘It’s clean, I promise.’
Elizabeth takes the tissue and wipes under her nose, then her cheeks. She is about to dissolve into tears again, and I place a firm hand on her knee. ‘The good news is that you are not alone in this. And you already have two friends in the Manor. That’s Becca and I’m Abby.’
She sniffles and nods. ‘Elizabeth.’
‘Hi,’ says Becca.
‘Hello, Elizabeth,’ I say, and we share a smile. ‘Now, do you want more good news, or the even better news?’ I ask.
‘Both.’
‘Well, the other good news is that we’re not filming until tomorrow night and, hopefully, by then we’ll all be old hats at this.’ She nods again, her eyes hopeful. Becca hands over a box of tissues she’s found, and Elizabeth takes a handful to wipe her face properly.
‘And the even better news is something I have to show you. Come on, up you get,’ I say, standing and offering her a hand. She takes it and I walk her over to the window. ‘Look.’
She blinks at the view―the stunning view of the patio, the lawn and garden, the beach, and the sparkling sunlit water of Sydney Harbour. ‘Now, what do you think of that?’
‘It’s incredible,’ she replies.
‘Yeah, our room looks out over the driveway,’ says Becca with a laugh. ‘I’ll swap ya?’ she jokes.
Elizabeth laughs, which turns into a hiccup. ‘We’re going downstairs to look around,’ I say. ‘How about you come find us when you’re feeling a bit better?’
‘I’ll be in the kitchen,’ says Becca. ‘I’m starving.’
Elizabeth bites her lip and a frown scuppers across her face. ‘It’s surreal for all of us,’ I say.
‘Yeah, totally,’ says Becca. ‘It’s, like, really weird. But we’re here now, so let’s make the most of it, ’kay?’ This is met with a quick nod and I sense that Elizabeth just wants to be alone now. ‘See you downstairs,’ I say, and we go.
‘I really am starving,’ Becca says quietly once we’ve left Elizabeth’s room. ‘God, I hope there’s Vegemite,’ she adds. ‘I practically live on the stuff.’
‘Lordy, she’s crying already? Toughen up, you snivelly little git!’ Becca and I stop and look at each other, her appalled expression mirroring mine.
We’re outside Tara and Kylie’s room. They’ve put the two Villains together and despite the absence of cameras, they’re already behaving as the loathsome cows they’ve been cast as. They also look like they’ve stepped out of Gotham City―Batman’s latest nemeses, a pigeon pair of acidic beauty. Tara with her j
et-black hair, straightened to within an inch of its life, falling dull and lustreless down her back, and Kylie with the exact same hairstyle―only platinum blonde―and both wearing enough makeup to kit out a Mac counter. Beauty from a (heavily abused) bottle.
A cackle of laughter follows Tara’s snide comment and Kylie dives right into the exchange, seeming to relish sparring with a fellow Villain. ‘And she’s such a mousy little thing. She’ll be outta here at the first Pin Ritual, don’t you worry.’
‘Oh, I’m not worried. Have you seen the others? We’re definitely two of the hottest girls here. And what about that Heffalump, the plain, chubby girl?’ Tara snorts out a scoffing laugh.
My eyes drop to the floor and I feel a hand reach down and squeeze mine as my tum turns squidgy. I know I’m not Doe material, but I’d fooled myself into thinking the makeover was enough, that the others would see me as a peer.
‘Oh, my god, she must come from a rich family or something. She probably bought her way in here. Daddy, please can you get me on The Stag,’ whines Kylie. Oh, the irony of how far that is from the truth!
There’s a tug on my hand and when I look at Becca, she’s signalling for us to leave before we hear any more. But I am rooted to spot, my instincts for self-preservation having deserted me, and I steel myself to hear every last nasty thing they have to say about me.
‘Too bloody right,’ says Tara. ‘We’ll probably be the last two Does, don’t you reckon?’ It’s not lost on me that they’ve not mentioned Daniel, the Stag, even once. This is a game to them―they’re here to win rather than fall in love.
‘Well, there’s that hot chick from Brissie,’ says Kylie. She’s talking about Justine, a wannabe actress―and yes, she’s pretty, but there’s a lot of grooming that goes into that look and those are most certainly not the breasts that nature doled out.
