The Dating Game

by Sandy Barker

  ‘So, it’s just you and your brother? No other siblings?’ I ask.

  ‘Nah, just us. Mum says that after Harry was born―what with me only being a toddler and Dad away filming for months at a time―she was run off her feet. I mean, Dad helped out a bit when he was back in Sydney, but still …’ He trails off, a crease between his brows. ‘It’s weird that, don’t ya think, what they used to say about dads―that they were “helping” the mums? But really, if you have a child, you’re not “helping out” your spouse, you’re just being a parent, right?’

  ‘Right,’ I say, although I have no frame of reference for what a dad should or could or would do to be a good parent. That said, I put Jack’s astute observation in the plus column of my ‘Jack as a Potential Love Interest’ balance sheet. I haven’t even told Lisa I’ve been compiling it, but I suspect she knows.

  ‘The stories my old man could tell …’ Jack chuckles softly. ‘Still does when he’s had a few. He worked with Clint Eastwood once.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep. His first time as DOP―’ He must catch the flicker of confusion on my face. ‘Director of Photography,’ he explains and I nod. ‘Yeah, apparently, Clint had seen his work on this Australian film―you might have heard of it―The Station?’ I shake my head. ‘Anyway, he’d seen Dad’s work and called him up and offered him the job. Dad thought it was one of his mates having a laugh at first, but no. It was legit.’

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ I say, smiling.

  ‘Too right. But if you ever meet my dad and he starts telling that story, get comfy. He can drag it out for at least an hour.’

  I laugh and he joins in. The way he talks about his family … there’s so much affection. His whole face lights up. And then I realise what he’s just said. ‘If you ever meet my dad …’ For all intents and purposes, we’re colleagues―well, of sorts. There should be no reason that I would meet Jack’s parents while we’re filming in Sydney. Unless …

  Maybe this is a date.

  ‘No, he’s just being friendly, Abigail. It’s a long flight,’ I reason.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve been rabbiting on long enough. What about you―your family?’ he asks.

  Typically, this question gets my hackles up. A poor single mum juggling multiple jobs, an absent father, our postcode screaming ‘council estate’ … Most people either tilt their heads in that ‘Oh, how I pity you’ way, or there’s an almost imperceptible shift in how they view me, like I’m suddenly lesser―lesser than them, certainly, but also lesser than the person they thought I was before my big revelation.

  But I already know that Jack is not ‘most people’, so I opt for a good portion of the truth, omitting my father altogether and simply describing my mum as a ‘single mum’. When I wrap up with, ‘She came to the airport to see me off,’ he replies, ‘She sounds like an incredible woman.’

  ‘She is. I’d do anything for my mum. I just …’ I stare down at the thousands of bubbles rising to the top of my glass.

  ‘It’s the lying,’ he says simply.

  My head snaps in his direction. ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  He shrugs. ‘I can tell you’re a decent person and it must be rough having to lie to your mum.’

  ‘She’s worried that I think I’m unlovable.’ The words are out of my mouth before I’ve even registered the thought. Why? Why would I tell Jack something like that, something so private, something that paints me in such a pitiful light? Stupid champagne. I frown at the glass and place it on the table between our seats, feeling the colour rising in my cheeks.

  ‘Hey …’ I absolutely do not want to look at Jack. I want to gather my belongings and go back to 10B and see out the rest of the flight in quiet humiliation from the back of the business-class cabin.

  ‘Abby … Look, I can totally understand why she’d say something like that.’ He can? I glance sideways at him, emboldened by the empathetic tone in his voice.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘This is the fourth one of these shows I’ve done―well, the first of the British version, but I’ve produced three seasons of The Buck―that’s what we call it back home …’ I already knew that―one of the many nuggets I discovered when researching Jack online. It was for my job, by the way―I’m not a creepy cyber-stalker. I promise.

  ‘Anyway, this is the fourth time I’ve assembled a cast of Does, and you know what?’ he asks rhetorically, ‘from what I’ve seen, most Does legitimately want to find love. If you take that into account, along with what you’ve told me about how close you two are, it’s not hard to see how she made the leap.’

  I nod, realising he’s right. My mum has only connected the dots I’ve given her. It still stings that I have caused her any angst, but I do not think I am unlovable. Not really, despite what my inner voice says from time to time. And I’ll find a way to reassure my mum, even if I never tell her the truth about my appearance on The Stag.

  I have a thought. ‘So, what about the rest of the Does?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If most of the Does want to find love, what about the others?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, right. Yeah, they either come on the show as a lark or they just want to be on TV. For some, it’s about getting an agent, or a role on Neighbours, or something.’

  ‘And you know that upfront?’

  ‘Well, not … officially.’ His eyes twinkle with mirth. ‘I’m sure they think they’re doing a great job at being “sincere”,’ he says, adding the air quotes with the waggle of his forefinger, ‘but it’s pretty obvious.’ He shrugs. ‘Often, we end up casting a few of them to up the drama, you know?’

  Ooh, insider information. Anastasia’s ears prick.

  ‘Not that I love that part of the gig, you know, fabricating drama for ratings …’ His voice trails off and, noting his frown, I add another item to the plus column of that balance sheet. He has a conscience and this show is just a means to an end, a way to earn enough money to start a production company with Harry.

  He shakes his head, as though clearing his thoughts, and flashes me a smile. I promise myself we’ll explore his moral dilemma the next time he brings it up, but as he’s just revealed a juicy nugget of information, my mind switches gear. Anastasia has work to do.

  ‘So …’ I retrieve the dossiers from my bag and set them on my lap. ‘Tell me who’s who.’

  ‘You sure you don’t want to figure it out for yourself? I’ve read your recaps. No doubt you’ll have all the Does accurately pegged by the end of the first Soirée,’ he says, referring to the show’s staged cocktail parties.

  ‘Absolutely not. Forewarned is forearmed. So, let’s start with Tara.’

  ‘If you say so. I’m topping you up, though,’ he says, reaching for the chilled bottle.

  ‘Sounds reasonable―you get me tipsy while I pump you for information.’ Oh, god. I did not just say I was going to ‘pump’ the gorgeous Australian. His widened eyes tell me that I absolutely did say that. Bollocks.

  He starts to say something, then shakes his head instead. ‘You’re lost for words, aren’t you?’ I ask unnecessarily. His head changes direction and his lips press together. ‘Well, we can blame Doe Abby for that. She is a saucy one.’

  ‘Oh, I bet she is,’ he teases, a smile playing on his lips. Now I’m rendered speechless―me, the writer! Fleeting moments of vulnerability notwithstanding, this really is the most fun I’ve had with a man in ages. Perhaps ever.

  ‘So, that just leaves me,’ I say, laying my pen in my lap. I’ve taken copious notes on the other Does, annotating their dossiers with little gems that Jack has provided over the past couple of hours. And, having heard him describe each Doe―even those who are looking for fame and fortune rather than true love―I have to admire how respectful he’s been. He and Roberta have stuck to the established formula for assembling the cast, but Jack has only revealed truths and observations―no conjecture and no gossip. I suppose all that will be left to Anastasia. It’s only just occurring to me now, howeve
r, that it might be difficult to write about myself―well, Doe Abby―especially as I’m unsure where she’ll fit in. ‘What role will I play?’ I ask.

  ‘You should just be yourself,’ he replies easily, like he’s already thought it through. I blink at him, confused. Surely, I will be ‘assigned’ a particular role? ‘I mean that’, Jack continues. ‘You just be you. Abby-you, not Anastasia-you. No doubt Tara and Kylie will provide enough “excitement” in the Manor without you having to switch on Anastasia,’ he adds diplomatically. ‘Also, that will help you keep it clear in your head, right?’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, you will just be yourself―clever, funny, kind―and you only have to don Anastasia when you’re writing your recaps.’ My mind leaps about like a monkey swinging between the trees. ‘Clever, funny, kind,’ he’d said―more pluses for the balance sheet.

  But I latch onto something else―Jack thinks ‘Anastasia mode’ is only for writing recaps. Whereas, I suspect she will always be lurking just under the surface, ears pricking like they did earlier and ready to pounce on insecurities and gaffs, missteps, poor judgement, and shocking revelations. I haven’t made a living from writing recaps for the past seven years by being ‘kind’―just the opposite. Perhaps what will be harder than writing about myself is lampooning women who I will come to know, perhaps even befriend.

  Bollocks.

  This is too much to contemplate right now, so I set aside my qualms and redirect the conversation to the one topic we have yet to cover―well, the one show-related topic―the Stag himself. So far, all I know about him is his name―Daniel.

  ‘So, why is there no dossier on Daniel?’ I ask, lightly tapping the pile of paper on my lap.

  He grins. ‘I was wondering when you were going to ask about him.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘It is.’ He smirks at me, the first sign of smugness I’ve detected since I met him.

  ‘Well?’ I prod.

  He captures his bottom lip between his teeth and narrows his eyes at me, clearly deciding something. ‘Okay, look, I’m not sure how you’re gonna feel about this, but … We thought there might be a chance that you’d actually fall for the Stag, so we wanted you to meet him cold―like the rest of the Does.’

  ‘What?’ I’d heard him―of course I had, he’s sitting two feet away―but my mind is having trouble parsing his words and generating any meaning that makes sense.

  ‘Yeah. It was Prue’s idea and Roberta loved it, so …’ The puzzle pieces slot into place and I am―at once―humiliated and infuriated.

  ‘So, you’ve all been conspiring behind my back?’

  ‘No, uh …’

  ‘Right, I see things quite plainly now. Poor, miserable, lonely Abby―let’s give her at least a fighting chance at finding true love. This may be the only one she ever gets,’ I say, my voice viscous with derision.

  ‘Abby, no. It wasn’t like that.’ I gather the dossiers from my lap and shove them into my bag.

  ‘I should go back to my assigned seat now.’

  ‘Wait,’ he says. I’m halfway out of the seat when his hand clasps my wrist. ‘Please, will you just wait?’ I plop back down and scowl at him.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I handled that badly.’

  ‘You did―without question. On top of behaving like a massive … arrogant … condescending … meanie.’ For someone who writes insults for a living, I am botching this terribly. Jack thinks so too―it’s in the way his mouth quirks at the edges.

  ‘How about this?’ he says, his tone belying our status as adversaries. ‘You let me explain my intentions behind this decision, and I’ll let you have another crack at telling me off.’

  His mouth quirks again, a sideways tug on those perfectly formed lips, and I feel my own mouth inverting into a smile. I pull it back into line, unwilling to concede so easily. ‘Fine, explain,’ I say, lifting my chin, my gaze steady. ‘But tell me the truth because I’ll know if you don’t.’

  He blows out a breath, seeming to appreciate the opportunity to redeem himself. ‘Right, so this came up the week after we all met at Prue’s office―a conference call with me, Roberta, and Prue, right? Roberta tasked me with creating the Doe dossiers for you and when I mentioned we’d need one on Daniel too, Prue said that she’d been thinking … that you―Abby―might fall for Daniel … for real … so we should hold off on his dossier.’

  I frown. That doesn’t sound like something Prue would say―she doesn’t care one iota about me and my happiness.

  ‘She said something to the effect of, “Won’t that make the best recap if Abby actually falls in love with the Stag?” Or something like that. Anyway, Roberta thought it was a great idea―“compelling television,” she said―and I … well, I was thinking about you, about how you’re not keen on the whole thing, but agreed to do it anyway, and I figured that if you did like Daniel, maybe even fall for him, that at least you’d get something out of this―besides the pay check, I mean. So, yeah …’ He shrugs.

  ‘She calls me Abigail, not Abby,’ I say quietly. It seems easier to call out this minor detail than to deal with the larger implications of Jack’s explanation.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asks, his confusion evident.

  ‘Prue. She always calls me Abigail.’

  ‘Right.’ He rubs the back of his neck. ‘But everything else is true, I promise.’

  I believe him. How could I not? There was nothing cagey or duplicitous in his explanation―he’d even held eye contact the entire time. He hasn’t lied to me, but I’m smacked with a horrible realisation. If Jack believes I might fall for this Daniel fellow―and helped execute this little plan―then he has no romantic designs on me whatsoever. All this frisson I’ve felt between us has been imaginary, a conjuring from my own hopeful (hopeless) mind.

  This is absolutely not a date―in any guise. This is a business meeting. ‘All right,’ I say quietly. ‘I accept your explanation.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Abby. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘And your apology,’ I add.

  ‘So, we’re good?’

  ‘We are,’ I say, thinking the exact opposite. I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes. A date? What an idiot I am.

  Chapter Seven

  I can confidently say that I have never seen a sky this exact colour of blue before―cerulean―and with the puffs of snow-white clouds that dot the sky, as if carefully placed to create the perfect heavenly vista, my first foray into the city of Sydney is surreal. In a good way.

  I CANNOT BELIEVE I AM HERE―a giant, big, fat enormous tick next to ‘Sydney’ on my bucket list. I’ve been pinching myself so much I now have a bruise on my forearm. I should probably stop doing that.

  Jack and I saw out the rest of our journey steering clear of anything contentious and sticking to innocuous topics, such as our favourites―books, food, films. We also watched a film together, trying to synch our screens by pressing play at the same time, though we were always a half-a-second off.

  Just after leaving Dubai, I even braved sleeping―turned away from him, of course, so he couldn’t see if I did dribble in my sleep. And that bag teeming with toiletries had certainly come in handy to make myself presentable in the morning―though, when you’re crossing multiple time zones, ‘morning’ is an arbitrary concept decided by the airline. It’s simply when they choose to serve breakfast instead of dinner.

  We arrived in Sydney late last night and after clearing customs and immigration, Jack helped me into a taxi, telling the driver where to take me, then caught one home. My hotel was a shiny new high-rise right in the heart of the city―and the view! Nothing could have prepared me for looking out my window to see the illuminated sails of the Sydney Opera House―they practically glowed―or the golden arcs of lights adorning that famous bridge.

  I almost didn’t want to climb into bed. I could have looked at that view for hours.

  Fatigue from the travel―albeit, far less than I would hav
e experienced had I flown economy―eventually won and at 1am, I had a quick shower and slipped into those crisp white sheets, succumbing to blissful sleep.

  I am now in the back of a town car heading to Stag Manor. It’s probably not the done thing to have the window down, but I do so I can properly take in my surroundings. And uncaring that I must look like a neophyte crossed with a Labrador, I am practically halfway out the window, tongue out, wide-eyed, and exclaiming at everything from the cafés with people squeezed around tiny tables on the footpath to stately, colonial-style homes, and eucalyptus-lined roads.

  The roads and traffic even remind me a little of London―not a straight, nor a wide road in sight and like in London, the drivers seem to have a sixth sense about how to manoeuvre and merge lanes without causing collisions.

  ‘First time?’ asks the driver.

  ‘In Sydney? Yes. It must be obvious,’ I say, sitting back against my seat.

  He smiles at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘It’s nice to be reminded that I live in the most beautiful city in the world.’

  ‘I’ve wanted to come for ages. I don’t think it’s quite sunk in yet―that I’m really here,’ I say, eyeing the bruise on my forearm.

  ‘Holiday?’

  ‘Er, something like that, yes.’

  ‘Well, you’re staying in a nice suburb―Point Piper’s one of the nicest in all of Sydney.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, someone else made the arrangements, but that’s good to hear.’

  Stag Manor is traditionally an actual manor, a stiff and stuffy antique of a dwelling that’s dusted off and spruced up for filming. I can only imagine what’s waiting for me in one of the ‘nicest suburbs in Sydney’, especially as the roads are getting narrower and windier and the driveways, garden walls, and gates are getting grander.

  ‘And here we are.’ The driver pulls into the next driveway on the left, passing through an open gate, rounding a large, angular fountain, and stopping the car outside an enormous glass house. ‘People in glass houses …’ The words pop into my mind unbidden and I marvel at the irony. I am about to live in a glass house and while there, I shall throw many a judgemental stone under the guise of ‘popular journalism’.