‘So, it’s just us five and you two on the island, alone?’ asks Mo. Rosalind glances at her hands and for a split second a shadow of panic crosses her face. This clearly isn’t the situation she was hoping for.
‘Well, there are three of the crew here. Me, Sophia and our camera operator, Daniel. But yes, just the eight of us on the island tonight. That shouldn’t be a problem, though – we’ll be fine. Great, in fact. Anyway,’ she says, evidently eager to change the subject, ‘where we are now is the imaginatively named Fire Pit. We haven’t lit the fire yet, but this area is one of the main communal spaces on LoveWrecked.’
I’m reminded of a Roman amphitheatre, a space to sit and watch gladiators sacrificed for entertainment. It’s not a bad comparison really; LoveWrecked is the modern equivalent, I guess. It’s survival of the fittest except the death, in this case, would be more of the social kind.
‘As you may know, the aim of LoveWrecked is twofold: find your partner and beat the competition. During your time here, you are to find a partner of the opposite sex with whom you think you have the best chance of winning. Then as a couple you participate in the LoveWrecked challenges. The better you do, the more points you get. Each week, the couple with the lowest score leaves us. Although I must say here that only half the points come from the challenges; the public vote on their favourite couples too. The final couple left standing will win £200,000 split 50/50. Here around the Fire Pit is where you get to connect with one another and scout out your partner-in-crime.’
I chance a glance at Valentina Novak and Carly Chu and I can’t help but think they’re looking at me differently. As if I’ve gone from campmate to competition in the blink of an eye and they’re only now looking at me the way I’ve been looking at them from the very beginning. I look at Mo and Jack – which of them would make a better partner to beat the competition? Jack is probably stronger and certainly seems more energetic, but I get the impression he is skittish, and that quality doesn’t appeal. I cannot deny that I’m a competitive person, or at least I used to be. At school, I excelled in almost everything, particularly sport. And at work, I always wanted to be the best; it was one of the reasons I was selected for the fast-track programme. Sadly, the competitive streak dulled in me over the years, beaten down by life, but as I appraise my ‘enemy’ there is a flutter inside me. Perhaps the Fire Pit isn’t the only thing about to be lit.
‘How does the filming work then?’ asks Carly, jutting her chin out.
‘Ha, of course you want to know that,’ says Jack and, turning to Rosalind, adds, ‘She wants to ensure that only her best angles are captured. Doesn’t she realise that with a face like that she only has good angles?’
‘Glad you asked,’ says Rosalind, seemingly ignoring Jack and giving Carly a smile that says she’s pleased to talk about something within her control. ‘The villa complex is equipped with seventy-five cameras, recording everything that happens in the villa. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. There is an army of people in London that work shifts and write down everything that is said and done. The “eavesdroppers”, as we call them, highlight the best bits. The executive team and I review all of this and put the show together.
‘On top of this, we have camera operators who carry handheld cameras around. It can be unusual at first but you’ll get used to them and soon forget they’re there. Daniel is here already, probably having a nap somewhere. The others should arrive tomorrow. Hopefully.’
I’d known we would be filmed but I hadn’t expected there to be this many cameras and this many crew. Not that they’re here yet but I can already feel their eyes on me, watching me.
‘I should also say,’ continues Rosalind, ‘that the LoveWrecked villa has been specifically designed to film a show of this kind. You may or may not have noticed that between all the rooms are doors with light bulbs next to them. Red for locked, green for unlocked.’
‘What?’ interrupts Mo, tensing. ‘So, you could choose to lock us all in somewhere?’
‘Yes. For example, when we want to set up one of the challenges, we might choose to lock you all in the bedroom or sitting room. The producers have control of the house but it’s for your own protection more than anything else.’
So, my high-end prison thought upon arrival wasn’t actually too far from the truth. It’s a little unnerving. But I don’t know anything about TV production, so maybe I’m being a bit sensitive. Rosalind glances at her watch.
‘The CCTV is scheduled to go live in just over an hour and I’m sure you’re all desperate for a shower and some food. So, I recommend you go and get yourselves ready and head to the outdoor dining area. Mo, I’d like you to be in charge of cooking tonight. Is that OK?’
‘Sure,’ says Mo, ‘happy with that.’
‘Brilliant. You should find everything you need in the kitchen. Aim to arrive at the table in one hour – you’ll find your individual microphones there. It is a requirement that you wear them at all times.’ We all nod. This doesn’t come as a surprise; it was written into our contracts. ‘Great, well, enjoy your evening. And you will see me and the other producers and Islanders in the morning.’
Rosalind turns away from us and walks back towards the villa.
‘Oh, and remember, the competition will only really start when the others arrive. So, for this evening at least, play nice.’ She gives us a wink and scurries away.
Chapter Seven
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Chapter Eight
Kimberley
Saturday 26th July, 18:45
When I exit the villa and arrive at the outdoor kitchen area, I find Mo leaning over the stove, stirring a wooden spoon in a pot the size of a cauldron. The smell of lemongrass wafts towards me and I breathe it in, welcoming its fresh fragrance. Mo moves fluidly around the worktop, sprinkling in a bit of this and that, tasting as he goes. This is evidently his domain. The kitchen is divided into two parts: the hob, sink and general food preparation area is laid out in a line against the wall of the villa and this is where Mo works with his back to me. The second part is its more dominant feature: a broad marble island sits in the middle of the kitchen and it is around this that Valentina and Jack sit perched on bar stools, each holding a glass of sparkling wine.
I tug at the bottom of my skin-tight Lycra dress. The cameras are now rolling, the show has begun, and it isn’t my intention for the first thing they capture of me to be my bum. I had intended to be a bit more low-key on the island but this dress was left on my bed with a note saying, A party dress for a party girl. Show the audience how the girls from Liverpool bring it. So low-key wasn’t an option.
Mo, Valentina and Jack were dressed and ready before I even got out of the shower but seeing them all now, I’m glad I followed the producer’s instructions and made an effort as they most certainly have. Jack’s hair is slicked back with copious amounts of hair gel and he’s donned a ludicrously bright pink shirt that clashes quite terribly with his unnaturally tanned skin. Valentina wears a red, long-sleeved crop top and high-waisted denim shorts. The shorts are so short it’s possible to see the curve of her bum from beneath them. Mo wears beige chinos and a navy-blue shirt on top of which he’s wrapped an apron.
As I approach the group, two people nestled in the far corner of the kitchen catch my eye, making me jump and I wobble ever so slightly on my stilettos. One of them, her mop of red, curly hair tie
d in a scrunchie on the top of her head, must be Sophia Dance, Rosalind’s assistant; the other I can’t see because his face is hidden behind a large camera. It doesn’t take a detective to realise he’s probably the camera guy. All I can make out is his chestnut-brown hair which is cropped close to his scalp.
‘And then there were four,’ says Jack, giving me a smile that makes my insides squirm. He picks up one of the champagne glasses and holds it out to me. As I accept the glass from him, Jack gives me a little bow and says, ‘For you, my lady.’
My lip curls slightly as I cringe at his cheesiness and I hastily rearrange my features to give him a smile of thanks. Jack might not be the man for me, but this is a personality contest after all. Mo, however, is doing a less good job at keeping his face straight. At Jack’s bow, he bites his lip, clearly stifling a laugh, and when he turns away, I can see his shoulders shaking. The glass is cool as it touches my lips and the bubbles dance from the glass when I take a sip. I’ve barely eaten anything all day, so I vow to take it slow tonight; champagne and an empty stomach isn’t a good combination for anyone, let alone me. There’s something about champagne that gets me particularly drunk – it’s as if the bubbles have the ability to infiltrate my faculties faster than normal alcohol.
‘Here she is,’ cheers Jack, tilting his head to look past me. I’m already forgotten, it seems. ‘Come on, Carly, we’re all waiting for you.’
Carly Chu totters towards us, her dagger-like stilettos clipping on the tiled floor. Her hair remains scraped back in her characteristic low bun and her lips are painted an intense red, like blood splashed against a white wall. The straps of her thigh-skimming black dress are so thin and the material so soft-looking that every movement gives the impression it might slip from her body completely. Jack and Mo both stand for a moment, their mouths hanging slightly open.
‘What?’ says Carly, furrowing her brow and looking down at herself. I very nearly laugh out loud.
‘Champagne?’ I offer, giving the boys a moment to regain their power of speech.
‘I’d love some,’ says Carly provocatively.
‘Nice dress,’ I say, offering her a glass.
‘You can borrow it from me some time. I try not to wear things more than once.’
My eyebrow raises involuntarily. The games, it seems, have well and truly begun.
‘Dinner is ready,’ calls Mo, heaving the pot from the stove and leading our procession the short distance from the kitchen around the corner to the dining table. The smell of it wafts behind him; it smells exactly like the type of meal I want to eat right now – warm, fragrant and comforting. Mo plonks the pot on the dining table and dashes back to grab a large bowl of rice and his champagne.
‘Mo, seriously, this looks… incredible.’ Carly lifts her glass and tips it towards him with another seductive smile; three guesses as to who she has set her sights on. ‘Cheers to the chef.’
‘Cheers,’ I chime in unison with the others.
‘Cheers to you all, here’s to our first night.’ Mo raises his glass and we all toast. The sound of clinking glasses makes me smile; to me it’s the sound of promise and of hope. I can’t remember the last time I clinked glasses with a genuine feeling that things might change for me.
‘May the best team win,’ says Carly, with a wink that somehow manages to make both the men, and probably the men in the audience, think it was directed at them.
Carly is good, I’ll give her that. She will make stiff competition.
I drain my champagne glass and reach for one of the bottles of wine that are laid on the table. It is slightly worrying that I’ve barely been here a couple of hours and have almost forgotten about the cameras and the watchful eyes of the producers. I glance over at them and see that Daniel the cameraman pulls his head away from the camera and says something to Sophia. It’s the first time I’ve seen him properly and I’m slightly taken aback to see his face. Daniel is a very attractive man: thick, arched eyebrows; deep soulful eyes; and a broad chest that I find myself fighting a strong desire to rest my head against. The humidity and the champagne must be getting to me, despite the fact I’ve only had one glass. I’m going to need to watch myself. I don’t want to get too drunk; who knows what might happen. What I might do.
‘What’s this?’ says Jack, pulling me from my Daniel daydream. He’s waving a golden nugget of puffed tofu in the air.
‘Tofu,’ replies Mo.
‘What the fuck is tofu?’ Jack asks in a far more aggressive tone than I think is strictly necessary for such a question. The tone of light-hearted fun and conversation which had existed as we all happily drank our champagne and sat down to dinner is gone with his what the fuck. Carly lets out a huge sigh, clearly unimpressed with what she considers Jack’s idiocy.
‘Seriously?’ says Mo. He chuckles and raises an eyebrow at Jack, who reddens and opens his mouth to retort.
‘It’s sort of like… vegetarian chicken,’ cuts in Valentina, trying to come to Jack’s rescue and get us back to where we were before his outburst.
Everyone giggles; it’s a good-natured giggle but Jack’s cheeks are glowing now, displaying his embarrassment and anger. He scowls and puts the tofu in his mouth, muttering that he doesn’t think it tastes like chicken at all.
‘Mo, this really is an incredible meal,’ I say, changing the focus. ‘Where did you learn to cook like this?’
Mo picks up his wine glass and leans against the back of his chair, his body arranged in a position of relaxed calm. ‘I’m a trained chef,’ he says, shrugging his shoulders as if it is no big deal but his expression betrays just how proud he is of himself right now. ‘I’m really impressed with the kitchen here. So, there’ll be lots more to come.’
‘I can cook too,’ interjects Jack, dropping his fork down on his plate with a clang. ‘More than happy to share the burden.’ Mo smiles at him condescendingly.
‘Just watch yourself around those Japanese knives,’ says Mo, his voice low and even. ‘They can be very dangerous, especially in untrained hands.’
I take an extra-large gulp of my wine. Everyone is jostling for position, asserting their authority in this new environment. It isn’t unexpected particularly given that this is a competition but that doesn’t make it any less awkward from such obviously alpha males. It will die down once they get to know one another – at least I hope it will. I don’t think I can handle sniping on a daily basis.
‘Hey,’ whispers a voice in my ear and I start. I didn’t hear anyone approach me. I turn to see that the cameraman, Daniel, has crept up behind me, his camera pointed at the two men asserting their dominance. He turns away from the camera to give me a warm smile. The hairs on my arm stand on end as my body reacts to the proximity of our faces. The proximity of his beautiful face. ‘We’ve not been formally introduced,’ he says, releasing a hand from his camera and offering it to me. ‘I’m Daniel, Daniel Oni. And as you may or may not have guessed, the camera operator.’ His hand is rough against mine. I didn’t realise camera operating would create such callouses. And shoulders. And biceps. His teeth shine between dark, full lips. God, he is so handsome.
I realise I’ve been holding onto his hand the whole time I’ve been taking in his handsome features, and I let my hand slip quickly. How is it that the first man I’m attracted to, properly attracted to, isn’t even part of the competition?
‘Everything OK?’ he asks, his brow furrowed in concern. I give him a small nod. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says, tipping his head in the direction of Jack and Mo, ‘the dick-swinging will stop soon.’ He smiles cheekily and gives me a wink that makes my insides quiver. I raise my eyebrows at him. Of everything he could have said, I wasn’t expecting that.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Once I show them what I’m packing, they’ll back off.’
I snort with laughter. To my horror, red wine involuntarily sprays from my mouth, spattering all over the table in front of me.
Fuck.
I grab my napk
in, assessing where I’ve done the most damage. My cheeks warm as the leftover liquid dribbles down my chin. Did Daniel do that on purpose to garner a reaction from me? He can’t have known that I would react so… so… humiliatingly. Glancing at him, I find that he is helping to clear up the mess rather than filming.
Chair legs scrape over tiles and Carly stands, towering over me. She throws her napkin onto the table next to her uneaten plate of rice and curry.
‘Ladylike,’ she says to me with a sneer, standing up. ‘I’ve already had a shower today, thanks.’
‘Carly, I’m s—’ I start to say but Jack Peaks interrupts me.
‘Carly, let me—’ he says.
‘No,’ replies Carly, cutting him off as she turns to leave the table. ‘Both of you sit down. I’m going to the ladies’ to dry off. I’ll be back.’ She storms off, without trying too hard to disguise her exasperated sighs.
I hide my face behind my hands, unable to look the others in the eyes. I’m such an embarrassment.
‘Don’t worry,’ says Daniel, his breath hot in my ear. He wraps his fingers around my wrists and pulls them away from my face. ‘She overreacted.’
‘That was your fault,’ I say to Daniel, not looking at him. Instead, I drain what is left in my wine glass and refill it.
So much for not overdoing the booze, says a nasty voice in my head. Although I haven’t really been overdoing it, I don’t think, but for some reason it is hitting me harder than I’m used to.
Daniel takes the bottle from me and fills himself a glass of his own.
‘Guilty as charged, officer,’ he says with a wink.
What did he just say? My hand wobbles. I strengthen my grip around the glass, so he doesn’t notice the quiver that gripped me at his words. I will myself to relax. It is a turn of phrase and nothing more. He doesn’t mean anything by it. There is no way he knows. He doesn’t know. He couldn’t know.
‘But,’ he says, carrying on in a way that convinces me he didn’t mean anything by it, ‘you can’t say I’m not good at my job, that will make a good promo clip.’ I try to disguise my moment of panic by nodding enthusiastically as if I understand what he’s talking about. Obviously, I don’t. I know nothing about TV production. But his enthusiasm for the clip convinces me his calling me an officer was nothing more than a turn of phrase.
The Islanders Page 4
