by Ali Ahearn
Frances glanced away, lest she say something uncharitable about Joni’s current employment status. Clapped-out vinyl and mangy old pets were hardly career choices a London School of Economics graduate ever needed to consider.
‘I just don’t want to be here when Edward gets home.’
Frances looked back at her sister, hunched in the corner of the Chesterfield. She’d kicked her boots off and drawn her stockinged legs up until her chin was resting on her knobbly blue knees. Desmond’s beady eyes stared at her over Joni’s kneecaps.
Was that reproval she saw in them?
‘Edward is away on business,’ she lied crisply before turning back to the television. ‘Let’s just watch these and see what we come up with, okay?’
She didn’t wait for Joni’s approval, pointing the remote at the screen and settling back into the lounge. It was strangely riveting viewing and neither of them spoke much. The only noise was the sound of pen flying over paper. They ate toast, Joni sharing hers with Desmond, and, later, popcorn.
Endurance Island had been the first reality show to have a couples format. Long before The Biggest Loser and The Amazing Race, it had been teaming up hapless twosomes who, if they didn’t have issues before going on the show, sure as hell did once they were stuck on an island in the middle of nowhere and manipulated from afar, in the name of good television.
Endurance Island had been an unprecedented hit.
Nine years along, however, with every network running its own, increasingly bizarre, reality shows, the ratings were starting to flag. The gossip press was full of speculation that unless the producers pulled something magic out of the hat, this tenth-anniversary special could be the last season.
Hours later, Frances watched as the credits rolled on the final episode of season nine, over a scene of bobbing, menacing ocean. She shuddered and flicked it off.
Joni spoke into the growing silence. ‘Didn’t gnome-man say the format was going to be different this year?’
Frances nodded, reaching for the popcorn. ‘It’s been pared down. More intense, fewer contestants. It’s running over four and a half weeks, going out live in the middle of the ratings season. There’ll be an hour-long highlights show each night, showing the mini challenges and our day-to-day activities –’
‘What, blundering around in the jungle, peeing behind palm fronds, being savaged by mutant mosquitoes and starving half to death?’
Frances gave an impatient sigh. ‘Do you think I like reality television? You think Countdown is reality television?’ Did Joni really think she wanted to go to some godforsaken island when she hadn’t swum a lap since school? The closest she’d ever come to wild open sea was an over-water bungalow in the Maldives.
Frances continued. ‘The Friday night show will be the challenge special, where we play for immunity. The viewers vote over the weekend and Sunday night the couple with the lowest votes will be banished. Except for the finale this year, the banished contestants get to come back and they decide who, out of the last two couples, wins.’
‘Clever,’ Joni mused. ‘So, we can’t afford to alienate any of our opponents.’
‘Yep.’ Frances looked at her sister. Dressed like a blind epileptic. Joni had honed alienation to a fine art by the time she was ten. Her eye twitched. ‘God help us.’
The fire that had been at a full roar when Joni first arrived had burned right down to embers and Frances got up to tend to it. Her brain buzzed with strategies as she prodded the new logs into place with the poker.
Joni watched her sister jab at the fire. ‘This is nuts. We must be soft in the head.’
Frances swung around, poker in hand. ‘Oh, sorry, do you have another plan to pay off No-Neck?’
Joni warily watched the glowing end of the poker and Frances almost laughed. Did Joni think she was going to run her through with it? She turned back to the fire and hung the poker over the intricate Victorian screen.
‘You really are an unbearable snob,’ Joni accused. ‘Does it make you feel good to have me in your debt?’
‘I think you already owed me big time, even before I made the let-Joni-keep-her-kneecaps instalment to No-Neck, wouldn’t you say?’ Frances had hocked a painting of Edward’s to make the payment.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, there was me thinking seven years of silence was enough.’
A rush of undiluted rage shot through Frances’s bloodstream like vodka on an empty stomach. That awful night played in her head again and she shut her eyes to block it out. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe an infinity could pass and the rage would still be there.
Frances glared at her sister. ‘What you did was unthinkable.’
Joni gritted her teeth. ‘What else did you expect from Joni the Screw-Up?’ She shook her head at Frances. ‘You know, I don’t expect you to understand how the other half lives, what drives us, how fallible we are. Not when you’re so perfect. Not with all this.’ Joni flung her arm out, startling Desmond.
‘All this? I’ve worked for all this. It wasn’t given to me on some silver platter, Joni. I started from the same place you did. Success requires a little more than showing up, Joni. You have to actually work for it.’
‘You didn’t work for this,’ Joni threw at her. ‘Your husband did while you were swanning around, dabbling in charity work.’
Dabbling? Frances supposed it was her fault that Joni didn’t know she’d founded, and was the director of, Pick Me Up, a charity that provided accommodation and help for people with substance dependencies. She’d forbidden G to tell Joni, and her parents were much too self-absorbed to have imparted the information.
And would it have made a difference anyway?
Frances took a breath. All she knew was that she needed money. A lot of money. And Endurance Island was the only way she was going to get it.
She straightened her spine and walked back to the lounge. ‘We need to do the audition tape. But we need an angle.’ Frances sat and picked up her writing pad. ‘We need an edge over the other sad-sacks they’ll dredge up.’
Joni rolled her eyes. ‘For God’s sake, Frankie, it doesn’t matter – G’s fixed it. We’re in.’
‘It does matter,’ Frances said, turning to face her sister. ‘Our spot having been fixed isn’t going to help us get to the finals and the million quid. The producers still have to convince the viewing public we’re genuine contenders. And they’ve got a swanky new director. Lex Margate. He’s just come from directing The Taming of the Shrew at the Globe. It’s been a real coup for the show. He’s very high profile. Serious talent. He’s not going to be easy to fool.’ Frances tapped a pen against her mouth. ‘We need an act. A cover. Sisters-who-hate-each-other has been done before. We need to stand out. We need the viewers to root for us.’
‘Long-lost sisters?’
Frances shook her head. ‘Been done. Season two.’
‘Separated-at-birth sisters?’
‘Season five.’
‘You’re serious? Where the fuck do they find these people?’
Frances shrugged.
‘Why don’t we just tell the bloody truth?’ Joni demanded.
Had she been looking for another argument, Frances would have pointed out the oxymoron that was Joni and truth. But she wasn’t and didn’t. And Joni’s proposition was intriguing. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, just say we hate each other with a passion but our crazy old grandmother’s dying wish was for us to go on the show and we’re going to get a million quid if we pull it off.’
Frances could see the caption along the bottom of the screen in bold white print – ‘Sisters at War’. ‘You know what, Joni. I think you may just have something there.’
Joni looked down at Desmond, who twitched his nose, and then back at her sister. ‘What?’
‘That’s it. That’s our angle.’
‘Ooookay …’
Frances leaped from the lounge and headed for the video camera. ‘Let’s do it.’
Chapter 4
Jon
i, Day 1
Even five-year-old boys with appetites like dredging machines would look at food with sweaty disdain in this kind of heat. Heat that clings to you like bad news.
But Joni couldn’t stop stuffing the sweet pink doughnuts into her magenta-painted mouth. She wasn’t exactly sure why, although she could hazard a few possibilities.
First, Sally Staples, the assistant director, had told them not five minutes before to eat their fill ‘because it’ll be the last meal your soft arses will have for weeks’. From now on, this luxurious cart, groaning with treats, was crew only. The rest of them, Sally had said with a malevolent sneer, would be surviving on whatever they could bake, barter or butcher.
Joni had felt Desmond quiver in the money belt around her waist at the razor-sharp words, and decided then and there that she hated The Stapler.
Second, Joni knew that when she stopped eating this meal the whole thing was going to begin. Not just atmospheric footage of the arrival by boat, including the neat little montage of her throwing up, arse skywards, in noisy, never-ending heaves. Or the interviews that had followed, where she’d tried her hardest to act perky and loveable, even though all she could see was impossibly white sand, impenetrable-looking jungle and ten other competitors who all looked like carnivores.
She couldn’t resist a quick peek at Frankie, who was munching delicately on a tiny sandwich while chatting animatedly to a bronzed Amazon attached to an enormous set of breasts that were at her eye level. Frankie managed to look dignified even while craning her neck upwards to avoid conversing directly with the breasts themselves. Joni noticed that most of the assembled company looked like they would trade places with Frankie in a heartbeat.
It defied belief that even here, in this godforsaken jungle, Frankie looked cool and pressed. Her tan shorts showed off long, golden legs and a gorgeous French pedicure. Where the hell had she got a tan in a London winter? Tanning salon? Bottle?
The whole effect, combined with a crisp, cheeky white tee, made Frankie look years younger than the last time Joni had seen her. And somehow smaller, more vulnerable. Something about the sight made Joni shiver. And, of course, look down at her own attire. Joni tried to remember a time when looking at Frankie’s long, crisp perfection hadn’t made her glance at herself with disdain.
Unable to, she settled in for her usual bout of self-loathing.
Starting with the sandals that, back in Cairns, Frankie had suggested she might want to trade for something more sensible. The glittery frogs adorning the shoes seemed less cute here, in this Lord of the Flies nightmare, amid the croaking and trilling of the real things. And her frilly little green sundress exposed too much neck and shoulder. She could already feel the crackly edges of sunburn.
Joni had barely registered the discomfort before, like an avenging god, Frankie was upon her, brandishing a tube of suncream and rubbing it efficiently into her shoulders. Joni wondered, not for the first time, but for the first time in a long time, whether she and Frankie had some kind of ESP.
Frankie patted her as she worked.
‘Careful, JoJo, you know you burn so easily. Here, keep this.’
She thrust the tube into her hand, but something about the awkward set of her shoulders told Joni that Frankie was embarrassed at the small act of kindness. Or maybe at the use, after all these years, of her special pet name for Joni.
JoJo.
Joni absent-mindedly took the shiny pink doughnut proffered by an elegant brown hand topped with pink cuffs and gorgeous silver links. She casually took in its owner’s spotless shirt, khaki drill pants and designer trainers. His face was kind but soft, his eyes a very appealing shade of puppy-dog brown. Not as beautiful as Nigel, Joni thought, comparing the doughnut offeror with Shitkicker of the Mint-Jelly Eyes. Then she mentally kicked herself.
Why on earth was she even thinking about him?
It had just been one kiss, and a brief hello at the reading.
Okay, okay, she admitted to her persistent, traitorous brain. And the airport. There was also the airport.
Nigel had been at Heathrow to oversee their departure, as per the guidelines of the will. Made sure the sisters were seated together, as required. He had looked startled at her jaunty little travel outfit. The black catsuit overlaid by the red boob tube. But Joni had known too many men not to have noticed that he also registered how the stretchy fabric framed her high breasts, and the way the suit made her endless legs seem even longer, as feline as the suit itself.
‘Stroke me behind the ears and I might just rub myself against you.’
He’d laughed, a deep melody skating somewhere between glee and horror.
And then coughed and shuffled papers as Frankie arrived.
Joni had found herself wanting another taste of those intriguing lips, but had figured it was just her usual nerves before flying. So, she’d contented herself with waggling her fingers at him as she disappeared through Security.
He’d called out to them both, ‘Don’t forget I’ll be popping by. Due diligence, you recall. As required by Ms Tripton.’
Joni had laughed.
The only thing G had been diligent about was Coronation Street.
Joni pulled her mind back, to the Island of the Damned, the proffered doughnut, and the man to which it was attached. He may not have been as striking as Nigel, but his eyes were warm and twinkly, a pale shade of golden brown, and they matched his hair almost perfectly. More importantly, he was offering her the last doughnut.
A true gentleman. Frankie would love this guy.
‘What are you in for?’ Joni joked half-heartedly, through a mouthful of saccharine and food colouring.
‘I’m the director.’ His Etonian drawl seemed to stroke her. And then he grinned wryly and turned away to flick the ash expertly from an expensive-looking cigarette into the enormous flower protruding behind them like an over-heated labia.
Joni cursed inwardly and willed herself to morph into Frankie so she could think of something useful to say. She remembered Frankie’s words. Serious talent. He’s not going to be easy to fool. She felt mocked by the lush, exotic surrounds.
Small, white, foreign and inarticulate.
‘Oh.’ She paused. ‘We didn’t meet you at the briefing.’
He waved airily and Joni noticed again his hands, long and brown with pearly, square nails. Like those of a poet. Or a wristwatch model. ‘Oh, you know,’ he sighed mysteriously. ‘I was busy. Planning. And things.’
Joni couldn’t help but wonder what things would be more important than briefing the contestants. ‘So, erh … director, eh? Interesting. What d’you do that she doesn’t, then?’
She pointed uncertainly at The Stapler, engrossed in conversation with a small red-haired woman with WARDROBE AND MAKE-UP written on her stretchy t-shirt. The Stapler was petite and raven-haired, with a Keira Knightley old-school style of beauty. Her hands moved quickly and her body seemed to hop on the spot. The Stapler gestured towards The Breasts standing beside Frankie, and made big, round circles in front of her own chest, in the universal language of ‘Is it possible to make them look even bigger?’ WARDROBE AND MAKE-UP nodded vigorously, and held up a tiny string bikini.
The director offered another airy wave, and then a resigned sigh. ‘This,’ he breathed, opening a clever little flap on his pretty shirt and showing Joni a beautiful silver hipflask, engraved with a unicorn and the letters CAM.
Joni gasped, not at the suggestion that illicit drinking was the man’s real claim to fame, but at the beauty of the thing. She ran one ragged fingernail across the gorgeous lettering, and raised an eyebrow at him in question.
‘Cyril Alessandro Margate. Lex for short.’
She suddenly remembered Frankie’s briefing.
‘Lex Margate. You’re … you do … Shakespeare, and stuff, yeah? Do you mind me asking, why are you …?’
‘Directing proletarian crap?’ The golden eyes crinkled weakly.
‘No …’ Joni began, then paused. ‘I mean … may
be?’
Lex laughed, his musical voice going for a heartiness that came out sounding rather thin. ‘A new direction for the show,’ he boomed, now achieving an almost convincing heartiness. ‘A shift from the vulgar to the artistic.’
Joni’s eyebrows dipped in perplexity. ‘But … it all does seem very … standard. You know, so far. I’m sure you’ve got brilliant ideas … for later on,’ she finished lamely.
But Lex had finished his cigarette and was looking at her intently. Then he pounded her gaily on the shoulder and said, with a swift tap to his nose, ‘Best get back to it.’
And with that, he disappeared. Joni’s shoulder hummed pleasantly where he’d touched her but before she could digest either anything he had said, or the rest of the final pink doughnut, The Stapler was calling them to order. Her nasal northern whine abraded the soft skin of Joni’s inner ear.
‘Okay, fookers,’ she barked. ‘Make your way over to the mosh pit.’ She waved with a perverted leer at what looked like a small swamp to Joni’s left.
Joni hadn’t noticed the sludgy muck until this point, although that was hardly noteworthy. Apart from six pink doughnuts and three packets of crisps, she hadn’t noticed much at all. She had been too busy imagining what a vegetarian could possibly eat in this cave-man paradise and making soft, soothing sounds at the back of her throat so Des wouldn’t freak out at his extended imprisonment in the money belt she had strapped around her middle.
Before she knew what was happening, Frankie was at her side again, guiding her over to the swamp with what might look like tenderness to an untrained eye, but that Joni knew was actually the shiny-hard steel of resolve.
A touch that said: Do not even consider escaping.
Joni yanked her arm free and, almost immediately, heard the honeyed tones of the host behind her. Darryl Driscoe. Super Sleaze. She gazed with horror at the brows splitting his forehead. It was not clear on the TV, but this close it was painfully apparent that the virile brows were, in fact, weaves.
Darryl had become famous after the season three wrap party, for a scandal involving the runners-up (the Librarian Sisters Addicted to Erotica), an electric eel and a camera. By the time the amateur video of the event had achieved fifty million YouTube hits, the ongoing renewal of his contract was guaranteed.
