by Sandy Barker
‘Oh, right, yeah. S’pose she could be top three with us.’ Like they get to decide that! Hah! If only they knew.
‘And maybe that stuck-up one―Becca,’ says Kylie. I look at Becca and she’s grimacing. She meets my eyes and jerks her head to indicate that we really should leave now. I agree. It’s one thing for me to be in the firing line but calling Becca stuck-up when she seems so lovely is nothing short of jealousy. It’s the impetus I need and this time when Becca tugs my hand, I follow. As we reach the top of the stairs, Tara’s voice trails behind us.
‘Yeah, who the blooming ’ell does she think she is, swanning about ...’
Becca and I reach the kitchen before we say anything to each other.
‘They’re just jealous of you,’ I say.
‘They’re bitches,’ Becca says at the same time.
There’s a beat and we both laugh. ‘There’s going to be a lot of that in here,’ I say. I’ve watched enough seasons of this show to know how awful the Does can be to each other―and that’s from the footage that makes the edits. God only knows what goes on when the cameras aren’t rolling or what’s edited out―all the squabbles, derogatory comments, and bouts of bullying that don’t make the cut. It’s likely we only see the tip of the iceberg on television.
But this is a reality television show, a competition, and with all of us living together, I have no doubt Stag Manor will become a human pressure cooker over the coming weeks. Something else to be wary of and worry about.
Becca shrugs off my comment, adding, ‘Tall-poppy syndrome. When people think you’re better than them―even if you don’t think it―some of them want to tear you down.’ She seems quite resilient, though I suppose that makes sense when you’re smart and you look like a supermodel; you must get used to people targeting you out of jealousy.
Becca had not been joking about her love of Vegemite―she’s about to slather her fourth piece of toast with a thick layer of the sticky black spread.
‘Are you campaigning to be a brand ambassador?’ I tease. With my squidgy tum, I’d scoured the fully stocked pantry and fridge for something soothing and I’ve opted for a tub of yoghurt, hoping that will settle it. Elizabeth, who looks a lot better than she did when we saw her upstairs, has made herself a mug of tea, and we are sitting at the breakfast bar with one of the other Does, Kaz, an Australian from Perth.
Becca laughs at herself. ‘I know, I’m like a teenaged boy.’ She screws the lid onto the enormous jar. ‘I blame studying,’ she adds, ‘It’s good brain food. Sometimes, when I’m working on an assignment, I’ll eat a whole loaf of Vegemite toast in a day.’ Ewww. I don’t even like Marmite. And how can she practically live on bread and still look like that? ‘Abby, do not cut down this lovely tall poppy!’
‘I cannot believe I came all the way to the antipodes for this,’ says Daphne, British ice queen, who is holding court in the adjacent lounge room. The four of us share a look of solidarity, a silent agreement to eavesdrop from the breakfast bar.
‘How do you mean?’ Tabitha, also British, asks Daphne.
‘Yeah, are you talking about Sydney or the house?’ asks Merrin, another of the Australians. ‘’Cause this place is amazing. I mean, the view alone―’
‘Well, clearly I mean the house,’ interrupts Daphne, her voice thick with condescension. ‘It’s not as if I’d show up to Heathrow without any idea of where I was going. Though I did not know I’d be flying economy. Had I known that, I would have made my own arrangements.’
I steal a glance over my shoulder and see Tabitha and Merrin exchange frowns. Is Daphne really Roberta’s number one pick for Bride? That’s not exactly good news. She seems as entitled as she is actually titled (she’s Lady Such-and-Such) and being a favourite, it’s likely she’ll be in the Manor the entire time I am. I suppose it was naïve of me to think I’d befriend all the other Does, especially having encountered those utter cows upstairs.
Daphne continues her tirade. ‘Surely, they could have found us someplace more suitable? It’s bad enough having to share a room, but to not even have an en suite!’ Becca and I may not have the view, but at least we don’t have to share the main bathroom.
Kaz starts guffawing loudly, and spins on her stool to face the lounge room. ‘Hey, Daph, you sure you’re gonna survive all this hardship?’ she asks, the ring of laughter in her voice. Daphne starts at the sound of her name―well, half of it―places her hand on her chest, and stares open-mouthed at Kaz.
‘Are you addressing me?’ says Daphne.
‘Uh, yeah. No one else here called “Daph”.’
‘It’s Daphne,’ she spits, her eyes narrowing to glary slits.
‘Right. Sorry, Daphne. So, Daphne, are you gonna be right, love? We could ask if they can move you to a hotel or something.’ There are a few titters of laughter from the others, but that may be the nervous variety―this is quite a tense moment.
‘Good god,’ says Daphne, waving a hand about loftily. ‘Can no one take a joke anymore? Obviously, I’m not going to ask to move off site. How would that look to the Stag? I was just saying that compared with some of the more classic homes I’ve stayed in around the world, this is rather gauche―I mean, it’s as though a back issue of Architectural Digest vomited―and it’s a tad too small for twelve people, that’s all.’
The line about Architectural Digest is actually rather funny―like something Anastasia would say. Though I can’t use it, of course.
‘Oh, totally,’ says Kaz. ‘It’s a real bitch when your twenty-million-dollar waterfront home doesn’t sleep twelve comfortably.’ It’s a great retort, and though Daphne’s only response is to send her eyes skyward, it does seem to diffuse the situation. It’s also likely Kaz’s estimate about the value of this house is close, if not accurate―she works in commercial real estate as an engineer.
I’m about to swivel back around to finish my yoghurt, when two Does cross the near-invisible line from outside to inside, both in swimsuits and dripping wet. ‘Did you go for a swim?’ asks Merrin, even though it is obvious.
‘Yeah,’ says Justine. ‘The water’s beautiful―so refreshing.’ If she keeps parading around here in that bikini once the cameras start rolling, she’s bound to be a crowd favourite. And she may just catch the eye of a casting agent or two. It’s a decent plan for landing that role on Neighbours.
‘It’s warm in the water, but a bit brisk out of it,’ says British Doe, Ellie, whose teeth are starting to chatter. I also notice how her pale skin has pinked across the shoulders and remind myself of the importance of sunscreen.
Laura, another Australian, enters carrying an armful of beach towels. ‘Found ’em,’ she says, handing one to Justine, then Ellie, who wraps herself up like a burrito. While they dry themselves, I do a quick head count. Ten. ‘Oi, you lot,’ says Tara as she descends the stairs with Kylie. ‘Whaddya say we get this party started prop’ly?’ With the addition of our two (wonder) Villains, we are now twelve.
‘Ooh, yes, please,’ says Kaz, jumping off her stool and opening an overhead kitchen cupboard. ‘Fully stocked bar, anyone?’ More squealing, which reverberates off the litany of hard surfaces. Who knew that a group of twenty- and thirty-somethings could make so much noise?
I look along the breakfast bar, then over at the lounge room. Merrin, a reserved woman from Tasmania, looks slightly petrified by the ensuing ruckus, but Becca shoots me looks that says, ‘Why not?’ and Elizabeth shrugs noncommittally.
‘So, who do you think the Stag will be?’ asks Tara. ‘One of those snooty toffs, ya reckon?’ she adds, throwing a not-so-sly look at Daphne. Daphne, to her credit, meets Tara’s gaze and raises her eyebrows. Too bad the cameras don’t start rolling until tomorrow, as this exchange would be perfect for the season premier.
‘I’ve heard rumours it’s an Aussie billionaire,’ says Justine. Well, that would get you noticed by the casting agents, love, rocking the arm of a billionaire. She’s wrong, though. The little I do know about Daniel the Stag is that he’s Bri
tish. Jack let it slip that they’d cast him around the time we met in Prue’s office.
The conjecture about whose heart we are all (ostensibly) here to win gets rowdier as the night goes on. Kylie, apparently, ‘… will be turning down the pin outright if the guy’s showing any sign of receding―no lie.’ Those are her words, not mine, and as soon as she says it, I start cataloguing attractive bald men, rounding off the list with Taye Diggs and Jason Statham. Though I do love Jack’s longish, floppy hair. And his green eyes and those lips.
‘Abby!’ says Becca, poking me.
‘Oh, sorry, what’s that?’ I’ve been daydreaming (at night-time) about Jack which, along with pinching myself, I should also stop doing.
‘Want to head up?’ she asks. ‘It’s looking like it’s only going to get sloppier.’ I heard someone saying something about skinny dipping earlier and in the absence of cameras―our last hurrah, so to speak―most Does are in various stages of inebriation, except Merrin and Elizabeth who are noticeably absent.
I look at the digital clock on the oven―9:58pm―then survey the group one more time. ‘Yes, brilliant idea. Though, I’m not sure how much sleep we’ll get with all this going on.’ But not long after Becca and I head upstairs―cries of ‘lightweights’ at our backs―I feel myself slipping into sleep, my final thought, a gorgeous Australian man.
Chapter Eight
The Stag In Sydney Recap:
Throw Another Shrimp on the Barbie
by Anastasia Blabbergasted
G’day! It’s hunting season again―and this time it’s particularly special! For those of you who like your reality television with a side of Bondi Beach and a shrimp or two on the barbie, then this season is for you! That’s right. This season, The Stag comes to you from the stunning city of Sydney.
* * *
We open the episode with sweeping shots of rugged shorelines and coves of white sandy beaches, and glorious vistas of Sydney Harbour―look, there’s the Opera House and the Sydney Harbor Bridge! And for those of you back in the UK, curled up by the heater and snuggling under the duvet, that glorious ball of bright fire in the sky is called ‘the sun’. Some of you may remember it from that day back in July 2011.
* * *
And for Stag Manor this season, gone are the remnants of aristocracy―no marble staircases, no velvet furniture or heavy drapery, not a smidgeon of Downton Abbey-esque décor here. No! Stag Manor is all about sharp angles, polished cement floors, glass for days, and a spectacular water feature straight out of Grand Designs―all evoking the glitz and glamour of one of the world’s most expensive waterfront locations. (Psst. It’s rumoured that Nicole Kidman lives next door!) No doubt we’ll get lots of shots of the Does looking longingly out the window―at that view! This is real estate porn at its finest.
* * *
Though, I’m sure the Does could have done without traipsing through that crunchy gravel between the limousine and the front steps of Stag Manor. I imagine there will be more than a few tears shed over ruined Manolos.
Actually, I don’t have to imagine anything, as there were tears shed. Wannabe Justine threw an enormous tantrum and tossed her ‘ruined’ sky-high silver heels into the rubbish. One of the production crew fished them out and, apparently, they’ve been sent to the shoe doctor (whatever that is).
And that was the least ridiculous thing that happened on day one of filming.
I know I’m here to peak behind the curtain, so to speak, but I could never have imagined the absurdity of filming the first episode―our so-called ‘arrival’ at Stag Manor. We started filming early evening, each of us dressed in our finest and primped just so, after spending the better part of the day getting ready. The preceding night’s hangovers (for those who didn’t go to bed at a reasonable hour) had worn off by lunchtime when the whole Manor erupted into semi-organised chaos: twelve women; five bathrooms; hairdryers blasting continuously for at least two hours; (more) squeals; (more) tears―stuck zippers are such a tragedy; oodles of false compliments―‘Oh, you look gorgeous’; Carlie run off her feet; and in the midst of it all, me.
Well, Doe Abby, the hopeless pretender.
As soon as I cracked open my eye shadow palette, everything that makeup artist extraordinaire, Nadia, had taught me flew out of my head. I’m so grateful for Becca, who is not only generous with her time, but a bit of a whizz in the makeup department. I was just as surprised (and pleased) when I looked in the mirror after she finished as I’d been on makeover day―me, but prettier.
Once we were all deemed camera ready, we took turns filming our arrival at Stag Manor, one by one stepping out of a lone limousine that had simply conducted a circuit of the circular driveway to deposit us at our very own front door (like we hadn’t already moved in). ‘Ooh, ahh, what a beautiful home,’ we mugged for our close-ups. Aside: I knew there was only one limousine.
And I swear this is the absolute truth, we finished filming all the ‘arrivals’ before Daniel even showed up!
Of course, there was a lot of excitement when he did arrive―Does on tiptoes, clambering over each other to get a glimpse while we waited around the side of the house for our turn to meet him. At least that part was authentic―the first time we actually met Daniel was on camera as he welcomed us to Stag Manor.
‘Oh hello, welcome to the home that you’re already living in. It makes perfect sense for me to do this, even though I don’t live here.’ And, of course, it made even more sense that we arrived at our new home carrying our belongings in tiny clutch purses―itty-bitty versions of Mary Poppins’ bottomless carpet bag, obviously. Ooh―another angle for my exposé!
I was eighth in line to meet Daniel and watched as Becca (number seven) disappeared around the side of the Manor. It was likely only minutes, but seemed much longer as I struggled to keep my nerves in check by counting out my breaths―in-two-three-four, out-two-three-four. Finally, Carlie, who was overseeing proceedings, double-checked her iPad-clipboard and waved me forward.
I rounded the corner of Stag Manor, plastered what I hoped was a winsome smile on my face, and repeated ‘do not trip’ to myself a dozen times as I made my way to the front steps and carefully climbed them. I almost sighed with relief when I made it to the top unscathed―huzzah! I can walk in heels―but I remembered that a camera was watching my every move, every expression, every breath.
Daniel waited on the front doorstep, smiling benevolently like he was Prince William in the receiving line for a Royal Command Performance. We introduced ourselves, he kissed my cheek, we made small talk―none of which I remember―and then I went inside where I was met with seven whispering wild-eyed women.
It wasn’t until the Soirée―filmed outside on the patio under the ‘moonlight’ (carefully placed lighting) that I started to get a real sense of who Daniel is. Speaking of which …
And let’s talk about our Stag, Daniel the investment banker! Fifty shades of yay, I’d say! What an absolute dish―those steely blue eyes, that swoop of flaxen hair. When they make the film based on this season―and why wouldn’t they?―Dan Stevens will absolutely have to play our scrumptious Stag. In that suit, with that perfectly knotted tie and that flash of flare in a pocket square, he looks as though he’s auditioning to be the next James Bond. Cue Shirley Bassey! Cue Adele! Cue a Shirley-Adele collaboration. Oh, Danny Boy indeed!
Oh, smarmy, priggish prat indeed! Hah. If only I could write that.
Now, let’s just have a quick chat about our Does. Only twelve this season, narrowing the field from the usual sixteen, but who can blame the producers? Six flights from the UK―seven if you count our Danny Boy―and that massive Airbnb bill―no wonder they’ve cut the Doe-age down by 25% (Thank you to Mrs Walters, my fourth form Mathematics teacher. You always said I would use percentages one day―and look!). So, we have six British Does and six Australian Does (who for some reason think its charming to refer to themselves as ‘the Aussie Chicks’) all vying for our Staggy, Danny Boy.
* * *
As
I usually do, I have categorised our Does as follows:
(potential) Brides
Villains
Dark Horses
Miscellaneous
Filler
And as always, let’s begin with the Filler.
This is harder than I thought. I know these women now, as we’ve been in the Point Piper house―sorry, Stag Manor―nearly a week.
I absolutely adore Becca. She reminds me a little of Lisa and I’m so thankful she’s the person I share a room with. But the ‘tall poppy’ comments have ramped up―sometimes deliberately within her earshot―with the (wonder) Villains now eliciting support from Justine, who (disappointingly) plays along. Becca continues to shrug it off good-naturedly, but I suspect she’s not as resilient as I’d originally thought.
And it’s definitely jealousy. When it takes you more than an hour to put on your makeup and do your hair just so you look like ‘you’, that must erode your self-esteem. That’s me being generous, though, because Tara and Kylie are outright nasty women.
Becca’s also one of the women here to find love. As far as I can see, only about half of us are. But this just makes me more protective of her and I truly hope she steers clear of banker wanker Daniel. Good god, he’s a twat. I don’t think I have ever met a man as up himself. Maybe Becca will fall in love with someone from the crew―perhaps even Harry, Jack’s brother.
I adore Harry―and I’m just realising now that he and Becca would be perfect for each other. He’s so lovely―a little more ‘blokey’ than Jack, as the Australians say, but like his brother, he’s gregarious and clever and he looks you in the eye when he’s speaking to you. Unlike Daniel. Daniel is one of those people who’s always looking over your shoulder to see if someone more interesting is coming along, something I discovered at the Soirée. And I suppose that when it comes to me (being the most normal-looking woman in Stag Manor), ‘someone more interesting’ could be just about anyone.
