The Dating Game

by Sandy Barker

  ‘No, no, I can’t … I can’t move.’

  Jack, Kaz, and I share a concerned look over her downturned head. ‘I’ll be with you every step of the way. Literally,’ he adds, though the mild humour is lost on Daphne.

  Daniel and Stevie appear on the steps above us, Harry just behind them, and now we’re all bunched up like giant purple-grey grapes.

  ‘Come on now, you’re just being silly. Up you get.’

  Daniel. Daniel being a massive twat. Every other person stares at him with either ‘shut your mouth’ or ‘what did you just say?’ looks, including Stevie. Though, I don’t check behind me to see what Becca thought of his unhelpful and callous directive.

  ‘She’s having a panic attack, Daniel,’ says Stevie, her tone even, but he just shrugs and rolls his eyes. Good god, if Daphne gives permission to use this footage―I’m sure Jack and Harry wouldn’t screen it otherwise―they’ll have to do some creative editing to avoid showing Daniel exactly as he is. A massive twatface.

  Stevie murmurs something to Harry who’s just behind her and he nods. ‘Ah, can we clear some room, please?’ Harry asks us. ‘As much as we can.’ I rise, my knees protesting at having climbed most of an enormous bridge, then squatting down for too long, and we systematically shuffle out of the way―Becca, Justine, Jack, and I down the stairs, and the others up. The same guide helps Stevie navigate around Kaz and soon she’s able to sit next to Daphne on the step.

  I’m fascinated, unable to tear my eyes away, yet also aware that this is an extremely private moment for Daphne. I’ve had panic attacks―I was certainly close to having one when I was atop Womble the horse and I will never forget the giant jaws of death that nearly took my arm off at the Feed Your Mind offices. But this seems far worse than anything I’ve experienced. How on earth are we going to get her down if she is unable to budge?

  Stevie talks to Daphne in low tones for what feels like an eon but is likely only minutes. ‘I really feel for her,’ Jack says to me quietly.

  I sneak a glance at him, hyper aware of his arm brushing against mine, and our eyes meet. How I wish it were just us up here and that we were already on our one-on-one date. His eyes crinkle ever so slightly at the corners―smising, I think it’s called, smiling with your eyes. Whatever it is, it’s lovely and for a second, I forget where we are and the current situation.

  ‘This must be why she didn’t want to swap with you at the winery,’ he says, dragging my thoughts away from kissing those perfect, perfect lips.

  ‘I was thinking the same thing earlier.’

  ‘She’s not as tough as she makes out,’ he says.

  ‘I’m realising that.’

  ‘Thank god we had a psychologist up here, eh?’ he says. I’d forgotten that about Stevie, and I add ‘clever’ and ‘compassionate’ to her Doe scorecard. She may just be the perfect woman, and now I’m convinced she’s a terrible replacement for the Cruella Sisters.

  ‘Anyone else you’d like with you?’ Stevie asks Daphne. She’s made incredible progress―Daphne no longer looks as green as she did before.

  ‘Just you,’ says Daphne, her voice barely audible.

  Stevie lifts her head and searches out the guide who’s been helping and signals for their assistance. Our tethers will all need to be reordered so Daphne and Stevie can descend, and we’re joined by the second guide to sort out the tangle of harnesses and tethers. Even Tim needs to be moved.

  Still, the guides are practised and it’s not long before the two blonde heads of Stevie and Daphne start getting smaller and smaller, and a third guide comes up to meet them from below.

  ‘Well, that was all a bit dramatic,’ says Daniel. ‘Shall we head to the top now? I’ve got a wonderful surprise planned.’ He claps his hands then rubs them together, creepily waggling his eyebrows at us. And when he says he has a surprise for us: A) He hasn’t organised a thing, the production crew has and B) It had better be one of the Hemsworths.

  There are modest affirmative responses―mine sounds remarkably like ‘bollocks’―and after some more disentangling we’re off again. When we reach the apex of the bridge a short time later, ‘Daniel’s’ surprise is revealed, and (no surprise) it’s not a Hemsworth.

  Instead, it’s two waiters (also in jumpsuits, only fancy black ones), one with a tray of canapes and another with a tray of fizz. Better than a slap in the face with a dead fish, I suppose―or a live one, for that matter.

  We gather in a loose knot and help ourselves to drinks. It’s the first time I’ve drunk fizz from a sippy cup with a wrist band―novel, yes, but also an essential safety feature, as there are people below us―driving, cycling, some mad idiots even running. I eye the canapes warily and resist the urge to scoff down a mediocre-looking vol-au-vent, despite being (more than) a little peckish after climbing for an hour.

  ‘Shall we get some photographs?’ asks Daniel like it’s just occurred to him. ‘How about one on one?’ Wonderful―not only will I have to smile, I’ll need to be in close proximity to Daniel and his cologne (which, as usual, I can smell from ten feet away).

  One by one we move into position next to Daniel―another feat of manoeuvring because (of course) we’re all still attached to the bridge! Daniel puts his arm around each of our shoulders as we stand where we’re told and say, ‘cheese’. It’s all rather cheese-y and when it’s my turn I take a deep breath as surreptitiously as possible, hold it, then step into position.

  The guide who is taking the photographs suddenly thinks he’s Lord Snowdon or something and starts giving us a series of directions. ‘Turn slightly, head up, smile,’ that sort of thing. There’s only so long I can hold my breath and I gasp for air just as Lord Snowdon’s camera shutter clicks. ‘Oops, let’s take another one.’ I sigh, crank out another faux smile and I’m about to step away into clean, non-fragranced air when Daniel catches my hand in his and pulls me closer.

  ‘I’m really looking forward to our date, Abby,’ he says.

  Our date? What date? Oh god, I’d forgotten we’ve got a one-on-one date coming up. ‘Oh, yes, of course.’

  ‘So, are you a koala or a kangaroo type of a girl?’

  ‘Sorry?’ What on earth is he talking about? Is this one of those silly ‘if you were an animal, what type would you be?’ questions? Oh, right. The wildlife park. I’d forgotten that too.

  ‘No, you’re more of a Tasmanian devil, aren’t you?’ he says, as if he’s already made up his mind. And if that leering grin means what I think it does, Tasmanian devils must be lascivious little bastards. Though he may be right. I read somewhere that many of them have chlamydia. Actually, sorry, that’s koalas.

  Daniel’s still leering at me, perhaps imagining me whirling about him kicking up a dust storm like in that Warner Brothers cartoon. I managed to extricate myself by waggling my eyebrows right back at him and walking slowly backwards―not exactly clever when standing on top of a bridge and Jack catches me just as lose my footing.

  ‘You right there?’ he asks, his hands firm around my waist. Not only am I ‘right’, but I may just swoon so he can catch me again.

  ‘Er, yes thanks.’ I compose myself and flash him a grateful―and I hope innocent―smile before carefully making my way over to the others. I arrive just in time to hear Justine whinging about Daniel. ‘What a dick. Can you believe how he treated Daphne? I mean, she’s not exactly my favourite person, but still.’

  And Becca defending him. ‘Some people just aren’t good in a crisis. That doesn’t make him a bad person.’ ‘That may not, but everything else about him does,’ I think.

  Justine seems to be at the end of her tether, so to speak. ‘For real? You know what, Becca, you can just have him.’

  ‘He’s not exactly yours to give,’ retorts Becca. I’m not loving this side of her. It’s completely at odds with the Becca I know and, surely, the person you fall in love with should bring out your best self, rather than your bratty, catty self?

  ‘Whatever,’ says Justine, sark cranked up to eleven
. If we were in the Manor right now, one or both would storm off and there’d be slamming doors.

  I flick a glance at Daniel and from the look on his face, he’s overheard (at least some of) the fracas. No need to hedge my bets on who’s being sent home tonight. Justine has just put herself in the firing line.

  WORST. PARTY. EVER.

  Until now, the Soirées have been mildly enjoyable, but this one is rather … er … dull. Even a deluge of Roberta’s synonyms couldn’t do it justice.

  Almost as soon as Daniel arrived, Becca sidled up and asked if she could ‘borrow him for a second’. That was a lot more than a second ago and they’re standing on the beach, heads together and talking (what appears to be) earnestly.

  Daphne is moping on a sofa reading (a first for a Soirée). Justine is stretched out on a sun lounger doing her nails, micro filings of dead cells littering the skirt of her cocktail dress; though she does brush them away from time to time (oh, the excitement). And, by the sounds of slamming cupboard doors, Kaz is still scouring the kitchen for some ‘decent nibblies’.

  To round out this action-packed evening, Stevie and I are on the patio sitting in wicker armchairs and sipping tepid, watered-down fizz from overly ornate crystal champagne flutes. These are only used for filming ever since Justine dropped one on the kitchen floor and it shattered into a bazillion pieces. Not only was the clean up a heinous chore―shards everywhere―Carlie let on that they cost around twenty quid each. For a glass.

  And the fizz is watered down with sparkling water because of the Soirée where the Cruella Sisters got horribly drunk and decided to go for a midnight swim in the harbour. Harry had to go out and rescue them, which they thought was terrific fun―‘Oh, Harry, save me, save me’―and (poor) Harry did not.

  We’re accumulating rules because of previous Does’ transgressions, I conclude glumly. Though I’m likely not as glum as Harry and Jack―it’s going to take a lot of imagination to excavate anything of interest from this Soirée.

  ‘Uh, Abby, can I ask you something?’ says Stevie, her voice soft and curious.

  I lean closer, mindful that there’s a camera around here somewhere and our microphones are on. ‘Of course.’

  ‘So, it’s only Becca who actually likes him, right?’ Well, the microphones may as well be off, because there’s no way that will make the edit.

  Within the safety of ‘unusable footage’ I look at the twosome talking on our private beach, then back at Stevie. ‘Well, there’s Daphne too,’ I reply.

  Her dubious look says it all but she adds, ‘Even after today?’

  ‘Mmm, good point. Then, yes, only Becca likes him.’

  ‘So, what are you all doing here?’ She laughs and I join in, the maniacal laughter of the slightly mad.

  ‘Same thing as you, I suppose. We came here looking for love.’ It’s an easy lie to tell after all this time, though my thoughts flit to Jack.

  ‘And not finding it …’ Stevie muses.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I cannot believe how he reacted today. Panic attacks are nothing to be dismissive about.’

  ‘You were amazing with her,’ I say.

  ‘I did what anyone else would have done.’

  ‘No, you did what no one else could have done and many wouldn’t have.’ She shrugs off the compliment.

  ‘Are you disappointed?’ I ask.

  ‘About Daniel?’ she asks, her eyes questioning.

  I nod, adding, ‘Mmm-hmm’.

  ‘Well … yeah, actually,’ she says. ‘I mean, they sent me this video package of him, and he seemed like a really interesting guy―the travelling, his career―and decent, you know, saying how close he is to his family.’ I bark out a laugh. ‘So, not close to his family, then?’

  ‘Look, I have no idea which Daniel is going to appear on televisions across the world.’ I absolutely do. ‘But I doubt he’ll resemble the real Daniel.’ He absolutely will not.

  ‘Mmm, yeah. It won’t be the version from the bridge today, that’s for sure.’ She scrunches up her beautiful face, endearing her to me even more. ‘I took leave to come here,’ she groans. ‘Like, proper holiday leave and this is … ugh … I should have gone to Thailand with my girlfriends.’

  ‘Look, I’m so sorry it’s rubbish.’ I really do commiserate with her. I’m here because I have a job to do, but her motives were pure. ‘You could just leave.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I’m like you. Contract―at least top four, possibly even top two or three.’ Oh, so Roberta is still tugging on those puppet strings. ‘That’s why you’re still here, right,’ Stevie asks, ‘you’re contractually obligated? Sorry, I just assumed.’

  ‘Oh, yes, absolutely!’ I fib. God, these bloody contracts! All these promises to the Does regardless of what the Stag wants. It’s an aspect of the show I (naively) hadn’t anticipated―even though I was guaranteed top four.

  I look back at Becca and Daniel on the beach. If the way he’s stroking her arm is any indication (and, ewww), then it’s clear what he wants and (Roberta willing) he may just get it. I’m suddenly overcome with shivers; seriously, what does Becca see in him?

  ‘Well,’ I say cheerfully, turning my attention back to Stevie, ‘you could do what Kaz has been doing―pretend you are on holiday―enjoy the accommodation, the excursions―’

  ‘You mean the dates? The ones with Daniel?’

  ‘Minor inconvenience.’ Stevie laughs again and I can’t help comparing this laugh―full and genuine―with the false titters she shared with Daniel at Bennelong. Poor Stevie. She probably should have gone to Thailand.

  Well, no surprises here. Gordo steps forward, ‘I’m sorry, Justine, but you did not receive a pin. It’s time to pack your bags and leave the Manor.’

  We’ve had half-a-dozen departures from the Manor in the past month-and-a-half―indifferent shoulder shrugs, tears (from Elizabeth), lightning-fast retreats (by Kylie, the villain and Merrin, the cat-loving Tasmanian) but this one will go down as my favourite.

  Justine throws her arms up in the air and shouts, ‘Yasss!’ She breathes out an enormous sigh as though she’s dodged the biggest bullet ever (and let’s face it, she has), then starts dancing and skipping around the backyard, making her way back to the Manor. ‘Ciao!’ she calls, waving vigorously and disappearing inside.

  Harry yells, ‘Cut,’ and the rest of us visibly slump. If nothing else, I will get a strong core out of all standing about with perfect (camera-ready) posture. As we turn off our battery packs and hand our microphones over to Carlie, Daphne slips into the Manor, her face like a thundercloud. It’s clear that she hasn’t forgiven Daniel for his twatishness and I wonder what that means for her potential Bride status. God knows what her contract says―perhaps she can’t leave early, even if she wants to.

  Gordo and Daniel are getting de-microphoned (much harder for men wearing suits than for us in our slinky cocktail dresses) when Kaz hooks her arm through mine. ‘The usual?’ she asks. It both delights and baffles me that she’s still here, and I wholeheartedly agree to a late happy hour.

  ‘Whaddya say, Stevie, join us for a drink or three?’ Kaz asks.

  ‘Uh, yeah, sure, that sounds good. What’s going?’

  ‘Hah, what’s not going is more like. The food here sucks, but the booze is top shelf and there’s plenty of it.’

  Stevie chuckles at that. ‘She’s right about the food,’ I add. ‘Lots of packet stuff, and mostly we fend for ourselves or someone makes a large pot of pasta.’

  ‘Well, you’re in luck. I’m an excellent cook,’ says Stevie. Of course, she is. She’ll probably cure cancer while she’s in the Manor. And after watching how amazing she was with Daphne today and with how lovely she’s been to the rest of us, she’s impossible not to like. Again―definitely not a Villain.

  We’re nearly at the Manor when Daniel calls out after us, ‘Goodnight, my lovely Does.’

  We share an amused look, then turn and wave, saying, ‘Goodnight, Daniel,’ in unison
. Daniel is in a huddle with Jack and Harry, and Becca lingers off to the side looking like a groupie hanging out at a stage door. ‘Becs! You comin’?’ asks Kaz.

  ‘In a moment. I just …’ her voice trails off.

  ‘Okay, but I’m making you a margarita! And you’re gonna drink this one!’ Kaz laughs at her own joke and disappears inside.

  Stevie pauses. ‘I really don’t get it,’ she says, casting her eyes back to the beach where Becca is now talking to Daniel again.

  ‘No, me neither.’

  ‘At least you girls are here,’ says Stevie. ‘And Kaz is a crack-up,’ she adds quietly.

  ‘She’s brilliant―good value, as you Australians say.’

  ‘Oi, you lot, get in here and give me a hand.’

  ‘Speaking of …’ Stevie and I grin and head inside. ‘By the way,’ I say out of the side of my mouth, ‘her cocktails may very well knock you on your arse.’

  ‘What are you saying about me?’ Kaz asks when we get to the kitchen. I’m not sure how she’s done it in the short time she’s been alone in here, but it looks like a bomb has gone off.

  ‘Just telling Stevie what a disaster you are,’ I say, gesturing at the mess. ‘Like a whirling dervish of destruction.’

  Kaz pauses her cocktail making and points a swizzle stick at me. ‘Watch it, Abs, or I’ll make you one of my kitchen sink cocktails.’

  Stevie laughs. ‘What the hell is that?’ she asks, sliding onto a stool at the breakfast bar.

  ‘What the hell isn’t it, is the better question,’ I retort, sitting next to her.

  ‘Eh, it’s a little bit of this and a lot of that,’ says Kaz, chuckling. She puts the lid on a cocktail shaker and starts shaking it so energetically I duck. There was an incident last week where the top flew off mid flourish and we were all covered in sticky pink liquid. And the walls. And the cupboards. And the floor. We were finding tacky drips of pink goo on various surfaces for days.