by Sandy Barker
‘He was just being friendly―to all of us,’ I say to Becca quietly, hoping that I’m right and wrong. Right because Jack absolutely cannot show me any favouritism or undue attention―it would be highly inappropriate and might blow our cover. And wrong because I want him to show me undue attention. In fact, I want him to show me all kinds of attention that would be deemed ‘undue’ and ‘inappropriate’.
‘Uh, huh,’ she says, casting me another side-eye. She’s been doing that a lot lately; perhaps she suspects that Jack and I have more than a producer–Doe relationship.
Now that we are well into the season―week four of filming―Jack and I have established our working routine and several times a week, we meet in the Control Room to view ‘the dailies’, raw footage of the show. It was my idea―solely to enhance my recaps, mind you. Sometimes Harry joins us, but he’s usually off doing production preparation, so it’s just me and Jack.
But although he’s friendly, Jack always maintains a professional distance―both in proximity and behaviour. Since we started filming, there’s never been even the slightest hint of flirtation. I sometimes wonder if I imagined our flirtatious banter in the lounge at Heathrow and on our flight. Even if it did happen, that feels like a century ago and coupled with Jack’s belief that I might fall for Daniel―snort! As if!―I’m certain I’ve been ‘friend-zoned’.
Still, there’s no harm in fantasising, right?
But on reflection, perhaps there is. Becca is smart and more than once, I may have returned to the room after ‘meditating’―my terribly wanting alibi―grinning from ear to ear and feeling all swoony. I’ll need to be more careful lest I give the game away. And, apparently, so will Jack.
I say nothing more, hoping the matter will be forgotten and stretch out on one of the sun loungers, though the sun is long gone and above us are a myriad of stars dotting the inky sky. It’s beautiful out here, a fragrant breeze carrying the tang of citronella candles, lit to keep the mosquitoes at bay for night shoots. As the others settle in to the left of me, I tear my gaze away from the overhead vista and stare down at my poor feet, which are rubbed raw from wearing heels in the sand.
But despite my sore feet and dating a man I cannot stand, I have a lot to be grateful for, particularly that amongst the cows and the cats, I’ve made three lovely girlfriends―something hoped for but also surprising. I’m also grateful that after a lengthy evening of filming, the others don’t feel the need to fill the silence. Even when Kaz arrives with the fizz, she pours in silence, handing around the glasses and, unspoken, we agree to sip quietly and just be. How lovely is that?
As I sip, I do a mental roll call. Merrin was the fourth Doe to depart Stag Manor. As I predicted (or rather, as Anastasia did), Filler Does, Tabitha and Laura, were the first two to depart. Dark Horse Ellie―she with the ventriloquist’s dummy―is also gone. Not surprising, really. She was sweet but she also brought that dummy out at every opportunity and Jack and Harry had a quiet word in Daniel’s ear about sending her home. Daniel had been reticent at first, with Ellie being one of the most attractive women in the Manor, but he relented after she took Little Ellie on a group date to Taronga Zoo, upsetting the (poor) squirrel monkeys.
So that leaves eight. The four of us, Tara and Kylie (the British and Australian Villains), Justine (wannabe actress and potential Bride), and Queen Cow Daphne, who according to Jack, is still Roberta’s number one pick for Bride.
The ‘Us and Them’ dichotomy that started out as the UK versus Australia, has now become ‘Naughty versus Nice’, like Father Christmas is in the Manor and has assigned each of us to a list. But only in my mind―I’d never mention it to the others.
‘I’ll miss Merrin,’ says Elizabeth quietly.
‘She was lovely,’ I reply. ‘But I sensed she was incredibly homesick.’
‘Sensed? Come on, Abs,’ says Kaz, ‘She was dying to get out of here. All us girls crammed in here together? She hated it―definitely the most introverted of the lot of us.’
‘More so than me?’ asks Elizabeth.
‘For sure, Liz. You’re really coming out of your shell.’ I glance across at Elizabeth―or Lizzie or Liz, depending on Kaz’s mood―and she’s biting her lip, a smile threatening to break free.
‘Kaz is right,’ says Becca. ‘Think about the date on the yacht. You didn’t even get alone time with Daniel’ ―Ouch, that’s a little harsh, Becca― ‘but then he picked you for the one-on-one cooking date! And you said it went well.’ Becca is being magnanimous. She was desperate for that cooking date, yet here she is plastering on a smile in support of Elizabeth.
Maybe she doesn’t think of Elizabeth as a threat. I wonder if she thinks that I am.
Elizabeth beams. ‘It did go really well. He’s a bit hopeless in the kitchen, to be honest, and I’m not saying I’m the best cook in the world, but the chef did compliment my knife skills. And Daniel … well, he …’ She trails off but as I’ve already seen it play out onscreen, I know what she’s about to say. I cringe inwardly, anticipating the epic fallout from her next words.
‘He kissed me,’ she says, plainly pleased with herself. She sips her fizz, perhaps to hide the blush that’s stealing up her cheeks.
Becca and Kaz’s reactions are polar opposites. ‘Good for you,’ says Kaz, good-naturedly backhanding Elizabeth on the shoulder. It’s become clearer over the past couple of weeks that Kaz is here more for the camaraderie and ‘a break from it all’ than she’s here for Daniel―and this solidifies my opinion.
Becca, on the other hand, is silent. When I glance down the line of loungers at her, her jaw is set and I can’t tell if she’s angry or hurt or some awful mix of both. ‘You didn’t say anything about him kissing you,’ she says quietly.
‘Oh, um, I …’ Elizabeth’s voice trails off into vapour. Because what is there to say? There were twelve of us―all seemingly vying for the same man―and now there are eight. The situation is, at best, bizarre and, at worst, The Hunger Games. This is a Doe-eat-Doe world they’ve created here on the banks of the most beautiful waterway in the world.
And for some of the Does, the feelings are real. It matters to Elizabeth―probably more than it should―that Daniel has shown her even a morsel of attention, let alone kissed her. It matters to Becca―again, more than it should―that he falls in love with her, because she has it in her head that there is no one in this entire country who can give her what (she thinks) she wants.
And here I sit, in this privileged position, where I know that Daniel didn’t want a one-on-one date with Elizabeth (‘the quiet one’, as he calls her), but that Roberta had insisted as a mid-season red herring. I can only imagine why he kissed her―he’s monstrously vain, so maybe he just felt like it, having no regard whatsoever for her feelings.
I stare up at the sky, awash with an overwhelming helplessness. I cannot think of a thing to say that will re-establish the fragile bubble of friendship that we’ve been building. ‘I’m going to bed,’ says Becca suddenly. She leaves so quickly, there’s a slight breeze in her wake.
‘Me too,’ says Elizabeth, slipping away with a frown on her face.
‘Goodnight,’ I call benignly at their backs.
‘Night, girls,’ says Kaz.
My mind ticks over and I realise that I have my story―the real story for my exposé―about how damaging this show is, how fragile friendships form in a matter of days, even hours, then shatter in a moment. How the very premise of the show is designed to manipulate women’s self-esteem.
Kaz gets up and moves to the lounger next to mine. ‘Well, this part sucks,’ she says. Her words break the tension and the snigger that rises from my chest and escapes is a relief. My idea dissipates but I’ll come back to it later. ‘You okay?’ she asks as I expel a long sigh. I turn to look at her, my new what-you-see-is-what-you-get friend, and her concern is evident.
I shrug. ‘Not really.’
‘Yeah, when I signed up for this, I thought, “What the hell? I might find love and if I don
’t, I might make a friend.” And now I’ve made three. Look, you might’ve guessed that I reckon Daniel is a prize dick …’ I snigger again and she nods ‘… and that’s probably because he is.’ At that, I bark out a laugh, then clap my hand over my mouth. It’s rather late and I don’t want to disturb the others.
‘And I really have no idea why he’s kept me around as long as he has,’ Kaz continues. I do―she’s extremely entertaining and the viewers will adore her―but I keep quiet. ‘I mean, we’re chalk ‘n’ cheese, but I plan on staying as long as possible, just to hang out with you girls.’
‘And, no offense, if you like him,’ she adds.
‘Oh, none taken,’ I reply.
‘Do you?’
‘Do I what?’
‘Like Daniel. Have feelings for him?’
‘Oh, er, I’m still testing the waters, I suppose. I mean, love is … it’s a big thing, isn’t it?’ I sound like a blithering idiot; I’m glad this exchange isn’t being filmed.
I glance at her and she is peering at me, a curious smile on her lips. ‘And you’re not just sticking around because of that producer guy, right? Jack?’
Oh, bollocks. ‘What do you mean?’ Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks. I knew I’d be terrible at the deception part. I’ve obviously let my guard down and first Becca and now Kaz are onto me.
‘Look, if you don’t like Daniel and you wanted to leave, you could just say no to the pin, right?’ she asks.
‘Yes, I suppose.’
‘I mean I say yes because this has already been one of the best holidays of my life. But I get the feeling that you’ve got other reasons.’ I bite my lip. God, I will never, ever play poker; I’d lose the shirt off my back. ‘It’s okay,’ she says reassuringly. ‘I promise I won’t say anything, but I’ve seen the way you look at him―Jack. And, hey, you’ve come all this way to find love. So what if it’s not with the Stag? Who cares? This is all just bullshit anyway.’
Sod it, she’s right―about everything. This conversation confirms it―I need to be much more careful around Jack. And I’m going to have to tell him to do the same around me. His friendly waves and our little chats may be innocuous to him, but they could jeopardise this whole charade.
‘All right, Abby love, I’ll let you go,’ says Mum.
‘Have a lovely afternoon, Mum.’ I can just picture her sitting in her tiny conservatory, cup of tea getting cold on the table by her chair, a Georgette Heyer book, open and inverted, placed next to it. The sting of missing her is acute.
‘Oh, and one more thing …’ There’s always ‘one more thing’ she wants to tell me as we wrap up our weekly calls. ‘Your Aunty Lo says to send a photograph of you cuddling a koala.’
I laugh quietly. I can just imagine what Aunty Lo actually said, especially as she thinks I’m here on an extended holiday. Probably something like, ‘And tell her that a cuddle from a koala is almost as good as a cuddle from a man.’ She’s a character, my aunty, and she’s been fixated on my (mostly non-existent) love life since I was seventeen. But I’m so grateful Mum has her close by―particularly with me being across the world.
‘You tell Aunty Lo that I’ll do my best,’ I say quietly.
‘All right, will do. Keep well, Abby. I love you.’
‘I love you too, Mum.’ It’s one of the few truths I’ve been able to share in weeks.
‘Bye now.’
‘Bye.’ I blow a kiss down the line and end the call. My ear is hot from where I’ve had the phone pressed against it for the last twenty minutes, but I can’t chance the sound of a tinny voice echoing around the room and alerting the others to my clandestine labours. I may be tucked away at the back of the property in my little hidey hole, but I’m not sure how soundproof it is.
I lean back against the uncomfortable folding chair and assess my current situation. I’m miles from home and anyone who loves me, I’ve barely made a dent in my exposé, and I have a massive, completely inappropriate crush on Jack who, even if he did feel the same way, couldn’t act on it or he’d probably lose his job.
But that’s just me fooling myself, or rather torturing myself. There’s no way Jack feels the same way. We’re friends and nothing more. I am one of three people on this entire show who knows his true motivations for producing it. He simply sees me as an ally, someone who understands that ambition can drive you to sell a piece of your soul to make your dreams come true.
There should be a word for that―like one of those compound German words. Aside: I’ve always loved those words―so precise and clever. Let’s see …
roleplaybetrayexposépayday
Perfect. It even rhymes. So that’s my word, but what about Jack’s? He just wants to finish this project, bank the money, and start his and Harry’s production company.
soulsellingnottellingsavingupforstorytelling
Hmm, not bad.
There’s an unexpected tap on the door. It eases open and there he is as if I’ve conjured him―Jack. My poor friend-zoned heart starts galloping, but I school my face into a welcoming, platonic expression.
‘Run out of kitchen roll at home?’ I hear myself say. I may sometimes forget that I’m witty, but at least my mind doesn’t.
He grins―a response that’s incommensurate with my meagre joke. ‘Mind if I come in?’ I shake my head and he slips into the room and closes the door softly behind him. Today’s T-shirt says, ‘Same shirt, different day’―clever. ‘Talking to someone at home?’ he asks, indicating the phone on the card table.
‘My mum.’
‘And how is she?’ It’s nice that he’s asking, but it is extremely late and there’s no reason for him to still be at the Manor―that I can think of, anyway. So, he’s either stayed around long enough to have this conversation, or he’s gone home and come back again. Either way, I can tell he has something important to say and he seems to be hedging.
‘Mum’s fine. She’s been spending a lot of time with her closest friend lately, Lois―my Aunty Lo.’
He smiles. ‘That’s good. She must be missing you.’ I nod, my eyes locked onto his. God, he has lovely, lovely eyes. They match his lovely, lovely mouth and everything else that’s lovely about him. I need a new word. Writers always have words they overuse and mine has recently become ‘lovely’.
‘Look, there’s something I want to talk to you about,’ he says. Finally, we’re getting to the crux of why he’s here.
‘Yes, I know.’
He blinks at me, confusion stamped on his face. ‘You …?’
‘Jack, it’s’ ―I glance at the phone to see the time― ‘12:13am, which is late even by your standards and it’s only by chance that I’m in here, but you must have thought it important enough to check. And we’ve worked in close proximity for a while now. You have your tells.’
He grins mischievously. ‘Is that so, Abigail?’
Now it’s my turn to blink at him. Well, game on! ‘That is so, Jack. I can tell when you’ve had enough of Daphne’s rudeness, or Tara’s swearing, or how frustrated you are when Gordo messes up his line for the fiftieth time. I know when you just want to get the shot so you can eat, that you find it near-impossible to make any decisions first thing in the morning until you’ve downed three back-to-back coffees, and that sometimes you think we’re funny when we’re not supposed to be and you struggle to keep a straight face.’
Oh, god. It really is late. I should never have said all of that. I sound like a stalker. One with a massive crush. At least I didn’t mention that I know how he likes said coffee. Though I do―black, two sugars.
‘I sometimes forget that you’re also Anastasia and have that amazing eye for detail,’ he says, amusement creasing the corners of his eyes. Thank god he didn’t say, ‘I sometimes forget you’re an investigative journalist ...’ He may suspect that I am writing my own piece, but I hope he doesn’t―and if he does … Oh, god, I hate all of this.
Deflect! ‘So, what is it?’ I ask.
‘Oh, right.’ He shakes his head and stand
s up straighter. ‘So, I had a call with Roberta today.’ This is not news; he speaks to her most days. ‘And she’s loving your scenes with Daniel, especially the chemistry between the two of you …’ The what?! I must be a better actress than I thought. ‘… so, she’s reconsidered your ranking…’ Oh, god―please, let him not finish this sentence. ‘And she’s decided that you’re now top two.’
Ugh, he finished it―exactly how I knew he would. Where is Cadmus the God of Writing now and why isn’t he looking after this writer on this stupid, stupid assignment? This is not how I wanted things to go―top two was not the agreement.
‘Wait …’ A sudden thought sickens me. ‘What about Becca?’ Becca is falling hard for Daniel and if I’m moving into a top-two slot, then where does that leave her?
‘She’ll stay in the top four along with Justine.’ He says this matter-of-factly and until I came on this show, I would never have believed it was possible to manipulate someone the way that Roberta intends to manipulate Daniel―sorry, has already manipulated Daniel.
‘Daphne’s still Roberta’s top pick for Bride,’ Jack continues. So, not only will this hurt Becca, but they’re pitting me against Daphne? Er, no. I’d prefer to avoid her wrath, thank you very much. ‘Unless …’
‘Unless what?’ As my mind scrambles to latch onto a shred of clarity in this appalling turn of events, there’s another horror just out of grasp.
‘Unless you―’ He stops speaking abruptly and I’d bet a million pounds it’s because of the expression on my face.
‘Unless I want Daniel for myself? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘I just thought …’
‘You just thought that I, a professional journalist,’ ―that’s laying it on a bit thick, as I am only here as a staff writer― ‘someone who is here simply to do a job that I didn’t even want, was forced to take, in fact’ ―he visibly flinches at that, but I am on a roll and I am not backing down― ‘would actually fall for a pompous, vacuous idiot like Daniel, because what? Because he’s not bad looking and has a lot of money? Because I should be flattered that someone like that would even look twice at me?’