Winner Takes All

by Katie Price

  ‘But I thought …’

  ‘What? That you’d throw me a party, put an offer on a house without even consulting me, plan out my life the way you want it – and I’m just going to forget that you’ve been cheating on me ever since you got your fucking awful job?’

  Richard turned red with rage. Jas knew she’d just crossed a major line. It was one thing rejecting him, quite another doing so in front of the people he desperately wanted to impress. Obviously, he’d thought he could buy his way out of this one but Jas didn’t forgive so easily. She’d entertained the idea of giving their relationship another go, but who was she kidding? She’d been thinking about the inevitable ever since they separated and now she knew it was exactly the right thing to do.

  ‘I was going to tell you this next week when I had the go-ahead from my lawyer,’ she continued. ‘I wouldn’t have chosen to do so in front of a roomful of people but since you love big scenes so much – I want a divorce.’

  Richard’s eyes were fixed on her and glistening with fury. The whole room fell deadly silent. Lila and Meg stifled grins.

  ‘I’m going home,’ announced Jas. ‘Now.’ She dropped the Tiffany box of keys on the floor as Richard stared at her aghast. ‘Keep your damn’ house.’ She raised her glass of champagne and knocked it back in one. ‘Happy birthday to me.’

  Chapter 2

  June 2018

  Kingley’s nightclub was packed with revellers. As the most famous and successful bar in Liverpool, Saturday nights here were always the busiest of the week, but nothing guaranteed full capacity more than match day when England had been playing in the World Cup – and won. The long oak bar had ten black-clad mixologists behind it, furiously whipping up cocktails. The booth area was full of men in suits and women in tiny dresses and huge hair, dancing on tables and sofas to Rihanna blasting from the DJ stand. Outside, queues formed around the block with shivering patrons waiting to get in. They’d be there a long time. Without your name on the coveted guest list, there was a strict ‘one in, one out rule’ past 11 p.m.

  Naturally, Jas had no trouble getting her name and Monica’s on the list for Kingley’s. A quick call to the PR and marketing manager for the club was all it took. Jas’s charm and confidence – essential traits in her job as a producer – meant she could talk her way into anything, but a simple mention of the fact that she was looking for contestants for Mr Right, a hot new reality TV show on Channel 6, not only got her and her assistant producer in, but the manager gave them their own private booth and drinks on the house all night. Sitting in a corner getting pissed for free was not what the women were here for, though.

  Jas jostled her way through the crowds, holding her gin and tonic in the air to prevent it from being knocked over her brand-new Reiss white dress. She nudged Monica’s back and pointed in the direction of the ladies’ room. ‘That’s where we’ll find our stars,’ she yelled over the music.

  ‘Yes! Great shout, Jas,’ replied Monica.

  They snaked their way through the crowds, men turning their heads as the two women walked past.

  Jas’s hair was swept up into an elegant bun, her cheekbones shimmering with highlighter and her full lips painted in Mac’s Lady Danger lipstick. She’d bought her dress especially for tonight and it fitted perfectly, short but with a high neck. When it came to Saturday nights at Kingley’s, women in Liverpool did not do things by half. Hair and lips were glossy. Tans, eyebrows (and certain body parts) were fake, and plenty of skin was on show between designer dresses and sky-high heels. They were all dressed to impress and Jas had no trouble fitting in. She adored fashion and dressing up was one of her favourite parts of a night out.

  They eventually reached the women’s cloakroom and let out sighs of relief. There were two aisles of cubicles, sinks outside them, then a huge area with pink sofas, stools and mirrors outlined with light bulbs. The whole place was full of girls: reapplying make-up, chattering, taking selfies and spraying generous amounts of hairspray.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Jas, adjusting her strapless bra from outside her dress. ‘I knew it would be busy but this is ridiculous. It took us ten minutes just to get here.’

  ‘Seen anyone yet?’ whispered Monica, smoothing her long slinky black dress and shaking her blow-dried brunette hair.

  Jas nodded to her assistant producer. ‘We’ll have no trouble finding a few candidates in this place. We’ll head upstairs to VIP later. The best-looking girls will flock to where the footballers are all drinking. But I think right here is where we’ll hit the jackpot. Look around.’

  Mr Right was a British version of the popular American show The Bachelor; Jas had had the idea months ago of bringing it to the UK. She’d worked tirelessly on the pitch and, to her delight, it had been signed off just after Christmas. She and Monica had been working solely on it ever since.

  The premise was that one lucky man was to spend eight weeks in a luxurious villa living with fifteen women, all vying for his attention. ‘Mr Right’ would get to know each of the girls through a series of romantic dates, either individually or in groups. Week by week, contestants who didn’t make the grade would be asked to leave. Everything would be filmed and the winner – the object of Mr Right’s affection – would be chosen by him live on air and then they would, in theory, become boyfriend and girlfriend. They’d also jet off for a two-week holiday in a five-star resort in the Maldives and their relationship would be covered by a glossy and lucrative magazine deal – fashion shoot and full interview included. Channel 6 were predicting it would be their most popular show yet.

  Jas had acquired a background in reality TV hits since joining the channel two years ago. She’d sought new talent for various other shows as well as producing a small but successful one-off special where celebrities helped brides-to-be get in shape for their wedding. But Mr Right was on another level – and, even though the whole idea was Jas’s genius brainwave, she was not the big bosses’ first choice of producer for it. Some of the bosses worried that she wasn’t experienced enough. But the head of entertainment at Channel 6, Harry Burrell, saw something in Jas: hunger, passion and raw talent. He was a tough boss who liked to remind his team that everyone was ‘expendable’, but Jas had fought hard for her chance to prove herself – pitches, presentations and lengthy emails about just why she was the perfect woman for the job and more than capable of leading the show, helped by an experienced director and an assistant. Now, everyone was taking a chance on the young producer with big ambitions. If the show wasn’t a success, she’d be waiting a very long time to get a chance like this again.

  She’d already found Mr Right himself, a six-foot-tall gorgeous Australian single father called Dylan. A semi-famous rugby player in England, he also had investments in a chain of restaurants. Jas had first seen him on Instagram and done some background digging, found his agent and approached him about the show. In person Dylan was the perfect gentleman: sweet but sexy with an appealing touch of cheekiness. He was sure to win over the nation. The hard part now was to find fifteen women to compete for his attention, and on the contestants Jas’s brief was clear: there must be a mix of ethnicities, backgrounds, personalities, characters, ages and jobs, but all the women should have one thing in common. They must be stunningly beautiful. The most popular contestants were sure to become celebrities in their own right.

  ‘I spotted Melody Mane in one of the booths,’ continued Monica. ‘You know, that beauty blogger? She has a hundred thousand Instagram followers. She’s single after breaking up with that boy band guy.’

  ‘We’ll get to her,’ replied Jas. ‘But we need to make sure we have a few complete unknowns as well. Normal girls viewers can relate to as well as aspire to be.’ She headed straight for the mirrors where a trio of women with thick Liverpool accents were shrieking with laughter at something one of them had said.

  ‘Hi, ladies, sorry to bother you but my friend and I work for Channel 6 and are actually on the hunt for potential candidates for a new TV series we’re w
orking on.’

  The girls screeched in excitement. ‘We’re going to be on telly?’ At that, various other clubbers glanced over and not-so-subtly listened in.

  ‘We’d like you to apply to be on telly,’ continued Jas, filling them in on the premise of the show. ‘Anyone single and over eighteen has the right to apply, but we’ve come here to vet girls we think are particularly special. They will go straight to the top of the pile of applicants.’

  ‘Like us?’ asked one of the group, eyes wide.

  ‘Like you,’ replied Monica with a smile. ‘You’ve all clearly got the looks and confidence.’

  ‘How do we know you’re for real?’ asked someone from the crowd that had quickly formed around Jas and Monica.

  Jas took a pile of business cards from her green leather clutch bag. ‘Here are my details and all the info for the show is on that website there.’ She handed out her cards, which were grabbed instantly by a swarm of hands embellished with acrylic nails.

  ‘Send a short video of yourself to that address or come to the Echo Arena tomorrow afternoon between two and five. We’re holding a casting.’

  By now dozens of girls were crowding the pair, desperate to know more. The chance to be on TV was a draw and the questions came thick and fast.

  ‘Well, the villa will be in Ibiza and we start filming there in the last week of July, start of August, when it’s nice and hot,’ explained Jas. ‘We’ll finish at the end of September, so that’s two months. Then we’ll want to do follow-up interviews as the show won’t actually broadcast until January 2019.’ She hoped it would be commissioned for a second series and that after the first ended she’d be flooded with new applicants.

  ‘How romantic!’ came a voice from the small crowd. ‘What about the guy?’

  ‘Can’t say anything about him, I’m afraid. It’s confidential for now but, trust me, he’s hot.’

  As Jas chatted away, she noticed a beautiful mixed-race girl with thick, dark hair to just below her shoulders, full lips and dark eyes. She was striking but, unlike the other women, listened in silently to what was being said and kept her distance. There was something mysterious and intriguing about her. Jas knew talent when she saw it. But just as she caught the mystery girl’s eyes, she scuttled out of the cloakroom and back into the crowd.

  Chapter 3

  ‘No, no, no … they’re all too bloody nice! Where are the bitches? We need drama, Jasmine. Drama and catfights and tears. That’s what gets ratings up!’

  Jas sipped her skinny latte and nodded. ‘We’ve got a good mix so far, Harry, trust me. I think we’re more than halfway there. We’ve done castings in Liverpool, Birmingham and Essex, and are still going through the video applications. We’ve been on it non-stop for weeks with the researchers.’

  Harry Burrell tutted. ‘Yeah, okay, but no more normos. I want some real talent in there.’

  ‘We’ve got Melody Mane. And that Hoxton Radio presenter, Alex Adams. She’s a model, too. Gorgeous. Loads of fans on social media and she’s really mouthy and opinionated. She’s from a tough background. Her single mum raised her on a council estate in South London. I don’t think she’ll take kindly to any competition. You’ll get a lot out of her. We need a mix of high and low profiles, though.’

  ‘Fine, fine. Keep going, keep updating me. It’s crucial we get this element right, Jasmine. No one cares about Dylan. The girls are what’s going to attract the viewers and headlines. We need people to root for and against.’

  Jas nodded, busy scrolling through Instagram on her iPhone.

  ‘Oh, and have you met Legal yet? They’re up on the twelfth floor. You better do that sooner rather than later. As we get closer to making the final selection you’ll need to get contracts drawn up.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s David Griffin, right? He drew up the contract for Dylan, I met him weeks ago.’

  Harry tutted again. ‘No, no, no. David retired last week. They’ve got some new chap over from news covering entertainment now. He’s the contact for all things Mr Right for the foreseeable.’

  Jas started scribbling on her notepad. ‘Name?’

  ‘No bloody idea. Now piss off.’

  Jas smirked. Harry was notorious for being the grumpiest, hardest, most ratings-hungry executive in the company, which made him perfect for a high-powered role in TV. Jas wasn’t scared of him, though. She knew the way to win around bosses like Harry: work your arse off, get results and, most importantly, show no fear.

  ‘Right you are, Hazza,’ she said, standing up from the black leather sofa in his office and heading to the door.

  ‘Bloody insubordinate,’ Harry muttered, though he smiled as soon as Jas was safely out of sight.

  One evening a couple of weeks later, Jas arrived home just after 10 p.m. She and Monica had already found a brilliant final selection of willing contestants to present to Harry, but had still spent the afternoon going through more applications, just in case there were any fantastic girls they’d managed to miss, and trawling Instagram and Twitter to check there weren’t any more semi-high-profile names they should approach. They’d finally called it a day at nine but Jas was satisfied the long hours were worth it as she’d found the perfect final contestant to make the show complete: a twenty-three-year-old fitness instructor from London called Charlotte – five foot three, with dark skin, glossy dark hair, huge brown eyes and a great figure. She was sweet and, Jas could tell, entirely genuine. Her video application, explaining how she’d been unlucky in love and just wanted to find The One, would be bound to win the viewers over. Jas was sure she was ‘National Treasure’ material, unlike some of the other more entitled-seeming girls, who were right for the show but for all the wrong reasons. ‘Bitch players’ she and Monica called them; the ones who were clearly fame-hungry and would do anything just to be on TV.

  Arriving back home, Jas kicked off her black L. K. Bennett loafers. She had a weakness for luxury labels but was also a savvy shopper and adept at hunting out a sale. She considered her treasured finds investment pieces and, while she had the odd designer accessory or pair of shoes, the rest of her wardrobe was Topshop, H&M and ASOS all the way.

  She poured herself a generous glass of chilled Sauvignon Blanc and threw herself onto the sofa. Richard had officially moved out for good last December after the disastrous surprise birthday party, and Jas had bought him out of the flat. She loved the freedom, but the downside was the financial burden of a gigantic mortgage on the Hackney property. In recent months her shopping fetish had come to an abrupt halt and she would no doubt have to start selling some of her wardrobe on eBay and borrow money from her parents to help with solicitor’s fees for the divorce.

  Still, she loved living alone, even if the flat still reminded her so much of Richard, despite her best efforts to redecorate within her modest budget. She’d found this place not long after they’d moved to London and were staying in the place provided by Richard’s new employers. He had wanted to stay there for as long as possible but Jas felt it was important they had their own home. When she’d found this flat, he couldn’t have been any less interested but she fell in love with it instantly and took pride in decorating it. There was a spacious, open-plan kitchen and living area, with marble worktops and chrome fittings throughout the kitchen and a black dining table with four chairs. An elegant grey sofa and rug stood in the living area, and there were framed black-and-white photographs on the walls. When Richard left, Jas replaced the pictures of them taken in happier times with photos of her own friends and family. And she introduced some colour and warmth into the previously monochrome interior in the form of potted plants, green and pink cushions, and a copper floor lamp.

  Even after the party, Richard had begged Jas to come back to him, but she’d told him it was too late and that she was already in talks with divorce lawyers, so she’d been surprised when he had agreed to let her buy him out of the flat so easily and quickly. He’d even given her a generous deal. And, for a while, he stopped the incessant calls and emai
ls. Fleetingly, Jas had wondered if she was making the right decision after all in letting him go. Was this a big mistake? Did she really want to be a divorcee before she’d reached the age of thirty? Maybe Richard could change after all, and go back to being the guy she fell in love with …

  Sadly, that wasn’t the case. As soon as the ink was dry on the property settlement, Richard turned completely irrational, drunkenly declaring love one day, shouting spiteful words down the phone the next, or else refusing her calls entirely when she tried to contact him about the divorce. She’d had the papers couriered to both his office and flat and he was still denying receiving them, rendering it impossible for her to proceed.

  ‘Clearly, he never expected you to go through with buying him out,’ Meg had said last month. ‘He probably thought that if he was nice enough to you, made it easy for you, you’d forgive him and take him back.’

  ‘I did think about it,’ Jas admitted.

  ‘Exactly. So, when you didn’t, he would have been furious and that’s why he’s behaving like a child now. The sooner you’re rid of him the better, honey.’

  As she took a gulp of wine, Jas thought back to that conversation and decided to phone her sister. They spoke several times a week. Meg answered on the first ring. ‘Hiya, hun. How’s the hunt for the next Charlotte Cronby going?’

  ‘Charlotte Crosby, you mean!’ Jas laughed. ‘And I didn’t know you watched Geordie Shore.’

  ‘I don’t. Keep seeing her on the Mail Online though. These celebs are all the same to me anyway.’

  The girls chatted about Mr Right, Meg’s boutique in Manchester and her husband Oscar, who worked as an estate agent.