by Anne Oliver
Brooke turned her head. ‘Done!’ she called, and they stood up, turned around and faced the crowd, who had started to twitter.
They called out, then clapped, and finally they roared and cheered. Relief rushed through Brooke’s body. They got it. They understood.
Brooke clasped the hands of the girls either side of her and squeezed and then, holding their hands aloft, the girls took their bows before bouncing offstage as if they’d just been fed a truckload of red frogs.
* * *
The conversation Jack was having with his father that afternoon wasn’t pretty. His father was roaring. He wanted to know who had organised it. He wanted heads to roll and blood to be spilled. He blamed Jack, of course, and Jack was taking great pleasure in the rant his father was giving him.
‘Which one was it?’ his father demanded, the angry purple veins in his neck popping. ‘It was the little one, wasn’t it? Tell me! It was her, wasn’t it? She’s been causing trouble from the beginning. You need to get rid of her!’
Jack’s throat closed. His father couldn’t get wind of Brooke’s having anything to do with this. The thought of his father saying anything to her made his body fill with a rage he hadn’t felt in years. Not since he’d found out about his father’s first girlfriend.
‘The girls were never going to put up with this, Max, you had to expect rebellion.’
‘If I find out it was her she’ll be sorry she ever opened her stupid little mouth...’
‘That’s enough, Max.’
Jack’s blood pumped. Calm. He had to stay calm. He couldn’t let his father know how he felt about Brooke. If he knew Brooke would pay...big-time.
‘It’s not enough. That small-titted little troublemaker had better watch herself. I can make her life miserable—you tell her that.’
Jack stood up. White spots danced before his eyes. ‘First of all, you don’t speak about her like that. And second—if you hurt her in any way I will hunt you down, Max, and you’ll be the one who’s sorry.’
As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted them.
‘Geez, Jack, don’t tell me you’re having a fling with her? Is that what this is about? You’ve let another woman manipulate you?’
‘I’m not having a fling with anyone.’ That was true. Brooke was not a fling. ‘But you’re not going to threaten any of the contestants like that. I’m still in charge here.’
‘If I find out you’ve become involved with this girl...’
Jack had to dig himself out. He couldn’t let his father know—couldn’t let his father turn his anger and hatred on Brooke. That wasn’t going to happen.
‘I’m not. Do you think I’d send her on a date with the biggest jerk on the show if I was involved with her?’
Jack was thinking on his feet. He wasn’t sure if he was doing the right thing, but right now he just had to steer his father off-course.
‘Brent?’
‘Yes. I’ve teed it up for Brent to choose her. She’ll hate it. It’ll make great TV.’
It would. But what would make greater TV was what she was going to say to him after that date. Brent was the most stupid, sexist loser Jack had ever met. All muscles, no substance. Brooke would hate him. And hate Jack for setting them up. But he had to get his father off the trail. He wouldn’t be able to stand what would happen to her if he didn’t.
‘Nothing had better go wrong this time, Jack. Get it together. I’ll pull it off the air myself if anyone—including that troublemaker—does anything to jeopardise our ratings or the show’s future. Do you understand?’
Jack understood. He understood that he’d had enough. He was getting out. He’d pay his father back any way he could, but after this show was done and Brooke was safe—he was out.
* * *
‘I choose Samantha Draper.’
‘I choose Dimity Lee.’
‘I choose Brooke Wright.’
The whole room fell silent. In their wisdom, the powers-that-be had decided that the dates would be doled out on a boat in Sydney Harbour. Brooke suspected it was so no one could run.
They were dressed in full formal regalia. They’d been in make-up for hours, getting their hair to sit just right and creating the perfect winged eyeliner. Brooke had never felt less like herself. When she looked in the mirror a stranger stared back. A beautiful stranger—but someone Brooke didn’t recognise. False eyelashes hovered over her eyes—she longed to rip them off.
Someone shifted. The women were standing in a row on the top deck of the boat, their backs to the magnificent Harbour Bridge. The four men stood before them, smiling in their suits. One leered at her. He’d just called out her name.
A gust of wind blew a strand of hair into Brooke’s open mouth. Someone had chosen her? Why? He was smiling at her. Big and muscly, clearly a bodybuilder. So not her type. He was dressed in baggy jeans and he had a flat cap on his head. Clearly he was trying to look younger than he was—she was sure he was bald underneath that cap he never took off.
He held out a brawny hand to her and she took it, wondering what this meat-head saw in her. His eyes trailed over her body and she knew.
‘You looked hot out there today, Brooke.’
Brooke didn’t answer him. She turned back to the other girls, who offered a few sympathetic smiles.
What the hell had she got herself into?
* * *
The date started badly. His name was Brent and he was thirty. Although he dressed as if he was twenty-one. He laughed a lot, but conversation clearly wasn’t one of his strengths. His biceps bulged out of his too-small shirt. A faint smell of fake tan lingered around him.
‘Your arse looks hot in that dress.’
Brooke gulped down the water she’d just taken a swig of. He’d chosen an oceanside bar for their date. It was packed, but the producers had managed to set up a secluded set of stools for them so they could tape without too much noise. Brooke had a headache from the thumping music and her patience was incredibly thin as she watched this thick-head eye up every woman who walked past in a short skirt.
‘Thank you. Your biceps look ridiculous in that shirt.’
He laughed uncertainly, clearly not sure if she was joking. She wasn’t.
‘What do you want to eat? This mob are payin’, so order as much as you want.’ He smiled.
The man was attractive—she’d give him that. Nice teeth. A wide jaw. He was manly-looking. Big and handsome. But it was his personality she was struggling with. Or rather she was struggling to find one.
‘What do you do, Brent?’
Brent’s head turned as another pretty young thing walked past.
‘I’m a project manager.’
Brooke rolled her eyes. If she had a dollar...
‘So you’re a tradie?’
‘Ah...yeah, I s’pose you could say that. I’m a sparkie.’
An electrician. Good job. Steady. Reliable work. OK—one good thing.
‘And where do you live?’
‘Bondi.’
Brooke smiled, waiting. But the silence was long-lasting. He sipped on his drink and pulled out his phone. Brooke waited while he checked it, quietly annoyed that he was able to have contact with the outside world while she couldn’t.
‘What made you come on this show?’
‘What is this? A police interview? Just relax, darl, and enjoy your drink.’
Brooke felt frustration swell in her chest. So he didn’t want to talk... What the hell were they going to do till the food arrived?
‘I’m in marketing.’
He didn’t look up but he grunted a little. The waitress came to take their order and he finally put his phone away, slipping it into his back pocket. Brooke was actually in pain now. This was without doubt her number one worst date ever.
/> ‘Are you looking for love, Brent?’
‘Geez, slow down. You’re pushy!’ Brent took another sip of his drink and pulled out his phone again.
Brooke felt heat rise in her head. She could hear it fizzing in her ears. ‘Look, mate. I don’t know why you asked me on this date. You don’t want to talk—you just want to check your phone and every girl who walks past. Clearly I’m not your “perfect match”, so what are we doing here?’
Brent looked up and for the first time looked into her eyes. ‘Jack said so.’
A breath expelled from Brooke’s chest. Jack?
‘What do you mean? I thought you chose me?’
‘You’re hot and all that, babe, but Jack told me to pick you. He said we’d be a perfect match. Look...’ He leaned in to whisper in her ear. ‘I have a girlfriend, but I’d be willing to forget her for one night if you want to have some fun.’
Brooke closed her eyes. She breathed deeply. Don’t go off, she coached herself. Don’t go off. This is what Jack wants. Great TV. Brooke going off about something else. Brooke being humiliated on national TV. Don’t go off—that’s exactly what he wants.
Every time she thought she had him figured out—every time she thought she’d got through to him—he did something else to make her anger flare her.
‘Thank you for the lovely date, Brent, but I have to go.’
‘Not yet! We haven’t even eaten! I’m starving!’
‘You stay, tiger. Eat all you want. I have somewhere I need to be.’
Brooke moved fast. Her feet barely hit the ground.
She grabbed the cameraman by the arm. ‘Turn it off. Now. And take me to Jack.’
She was mad. A white rage had made spots appear before her eyes.
The cameraman didn’t argue. He put down the camera and took her to his car.
THIRTEEN
She was here and she was angry—that much he could tell. And he knew why she was here. The unwatched footage sat leering at him on the computer screen. Mick had just emailed it over. Mick’s promise of it being a great scene rang in his ears.
He wanted to watch. Not for the scene. Not for the drama. But he wanted to know. How had her date gone? Somewhere in his jealous heart he was worried that she might have enjoyed her date with that meat-head.
‘Open the door, Jack. I’m not going anywhere until you do.’
Definitely angry.
Jack’s heart leapt ridiculously. Maybe the date hadn’t gone well. Maybe she’d realised the man was a jerk and she’d given him a serve and now she was here to declare her feelings for him.
Jack stepped back. No, she was angry. He knew what she was here for. To tell him off for forcing her to go on a date with Brent. She’d hate him. She wouldn’t want ‘more’ from him now. But he’d had to do it—it was the only way Jack’s father would leave her alone.
Reaching the video entry system, he swiped the screen to allow her face to show. ‘What’s wrong, Brooke—what are you doing here?’
Her face turned to the camera. ‘Let. Me. In.’
She was mad. Madder than ever. And he knew he had to let her in. He wanted to let her in. She was angry and she needed to yell at him and, strangely, he wanted her to. He wanted her to take her anger out on him—as if he could absorb it for her and ease her pain.
Two short minutes later Jack opened the door to reveal Brooke. Dressed in a body-hugging black dress and pushing her way past him.
‘This is it, Jack. The very end. I’m not putting up with this any longer. You’ve had your fun—I want out.’
‘Brooke—’
Her arms were folded tight across her chest, making her breasts rise up and peep out from the top of the dress. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was pulling free from the tight style she had it in. She looked angry and beautiful all at once.
‘Don’t “Brooke” me. I know what you did. I know why you chose Brent. You wanted the exact type of man that would annoy me the most. A misogynistic, stupid man-slut who has no self-worth and absolutely no idea how stupid he is.’
‘Are you talking about your date, Brooke?’
‘Yes, I’m talking about my date! The big knuckle-dragging caveman you set me up with. He spent all night checking out every other woman in the place. Then he suggested we go back to his place after they finished the taping because his girlfriend was away. You couldn’t have found a more repulsive man and you know it.’
‘I didn’t know he had a girlfriend.’
‘But you did know he was a pig? You told me that you wanted the best for us. That you really cared about us finding our perfect match. But you don’t, do you? You just want to make entertaining TV.’
‘I thought you liked the bodybuilder type.’
‘Since when do I go for the stupid bodybuilder type? Since when do I seem like the type of woman who puts up with a man who thinks monogamy is a pizza topping? You don’t know me at all and neither does anyone on your team. Do you even know what you’re doing? Maybe your father was right and they should have brought in that hotshot producer. Maybe he would have found a man who was even close to being my type.’
‘I thought you didn’t want to find a man? I thought this was all about your family’s business?’
‘It is...’ She hesitated, looking away.
She wanted a man. She was disappointed. Something burned hot in his gut and he knew what it was: jealousy. Stupid, worthless jealousy—for a man who wasn’t even worth her notice.
‘Is that the problem, Brooke. Did you get all excited when you saw Mr Muscles and hope he was the one for you? What happened?’
Brooke’s eyes were wide and to his horror they were filling quickly with tears. He’d hit a nerve and he knew it, and he wished he could take back the stupid thing he’d just said.
‘He has a girlfriend. He just wants to have some fun. He told me you told him to choose me, so I left.’
‘Good.’ Good. He felt better, but his chest was still pumping with blood. ‘That’s what you should have done.’
‘He was a pig, Jack. He was mean and thoughtless and stupid and completely out of touch with the real world—and you sent him to me. You chose him for me.’
He had. She was right. He’d known they wouldn’t go well together. He’d known she would hate him and he’d sent him to her. He shouldn’t have done that. He should have found another way. Because now she was upset and it was his fault and he felt as big as an ant.
‘Brooke, that’s not what I—’
‘Not what you what? Meant to do? You didn’t mean to hurt me? Well, you did. You humiliated me and you treated me like any contestant on the show and you’ve never done that before. You treated me like I was a puppet to be manipulated and you made me feel used and dirty and stupid—and now I can’t trust you.’
But that was what she’d signed up for. She knew that. She had to expect that. She was a contestant. This was a TV show. So why did he feel so small?
His chest with heaving with the heavy breaths he was taking. She wasn’t just mad at him—she hated him. He could see it in her eyes, in the way she didn’t come anywhere near him. Brooke always wanted to touch, she always came too close, but right now she was as far away from him as she could be and it made him feel cold and desperate. Desperate because he’d pushed her too far.
And the desperation that was prickling like a cold heat all over his body was a feeling a lot like something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Love. He saw it in a flashing instant. He loved her. He wanted to protect her because he loved her. And that thought scared the hell out of him.
‘You are a contestant, Brooke. That’s what you’re here for.’
The look she flashed him made his whole body go cold. Hate. Hate and disappointment and utter repulsion. The breath stopped in his throat. He sucked in air thro
ugh his nose.
Time ticked by slowly. She stared at him, her eyes darting around his face as if trying to read him. Then they were still, and the mouth that had been held in a tight white line moments earlier opened.
‘That’s good, Jack. I needed to hear that. I needed to know what I am to you and how you really feel about me. I needed to be reminded what a selfish, narcissistic man you are before I started believing that you were actually one of the good guys. But you’re not, are you? You’re just as bad as the knuckle-dragger. No—you’re worse. At least he was obvious about it. He let me know what a pig he was up-front. But you’re stealthy, aren’t you? You come across all sympathetic and kind and thoughtful, make me think you actually feel something for me—but it’s just lies. You are a liar, Jack.’
* * *
Brooke had felt her body shake as she delivered her speech. She watched his face—unmoving and unemotional—as she spewed out her feelings. As she put everything out on the floor, waiting to see what he would pick up. But he didn’t move. He just stood there. As if she were a stranger in the street. As if they hadn’t shared the moments they had and as if they hadn’t...
She’d wanted more from him—but not now. Now she was glad she hadn’t let herself get carried away, because she knew if they’d gone further she would have let herself fall and she’d be feeling even worse than she was already.
‘I told you before. I’m bad news.’
He delivered his statement so quietly she almost didn’t hear him.
She wanted to walk out. His coldness and the way he wasn’t even trying to apologise or salvage anything was hurting her physically. She wound her arms tighter to her body, pinching herself under her arms.
‘So that’s it? You just absolve yourself from any responsibility by saying you’re bad news? You warned me so it’s my fault when I get hurt? There’s low, Jack—and then there’s you. For you to deliberately hurt me—deliberately want to humiliate me—makes me think you’re so much more than bad news.’
She wasn’t sure how she could hurt him as much as he had hurt her but she wanted to. She wanted that frozen look on his face to change. To something. Anything. Anger, even—she didn’t care. She just wanted him to react—to acknowledge that he’d hurt her.