by Mel Campbell
They laughed together, while Rose sat in awkward silence, unused to having this much attention focused on her.
‘Tradies shouldn’t look high-maintenance,’ agreed Tania. ‘They should only do high maintenance!’
‘Maybe just bring it up a couple of shades, like she works outside in the sunshine?’ Nita suggested. ‘A few buttery highlights around the face?’
Tania came to stand behind Rose’s chair. She met Nita’s eyes in the mirror and nodded decisively. ‘Yes. Don’t make it too ashy, though; it’ll wash out her skin.’
‘Are you going to do all this right now?’ Rose asked tentatively.
Nita shook her head, setting her earrings clinking. ‘Nah, we’ll do the whole thing tomorrow. Colour, blow wave, make-up, and then you’re camera-ready.’ She patted Rose on the shoulder. ‘Come in at six.’
‘Okay.’ Rose stood up. ‘So … what do I do now?’
‘Well, have you met Moss the Boss yet?’ Tania said. ‘All the tradies report to him.’
‘Moss the … who?’
‘He’s the site foreman,’ Nita said, ‘but his name’s Moss. So on the show, his nickname’s Moss the Boss.’
‘Oh, okay,’ said Rose. ‘Where can I find him?’
‘He’ll be over at the depot,’ said Tania. ‘Go back through craft services, and head away from the site office. You’ll see a big shed. Ask for him there.’
‘Cool, thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’
Rose left the trailer and set off through the lunch area. The trampled brown grass gave way to a path made of large, square concrete pavers, plunked down in a line that curved away from the court. Ahead she could see a prefabricated corrugated-iron shed with a roller door at the front and a smaller access door in the side. The concrete path ended at the roller door, where a road stretched back into the arid depths of Ocean Springs.
Rose realised she was looking at the neighbouring court to the one where Mansions was filmed; but here the developers hadn’t got any further than putting down the road and staking out the blocks. Parked on either side of the court outside the shed was a pair of dirty semi-trailers whose trucks had been driven away, leaving just the containers.
The roller door was open, and Rose went inside. She could see it was a tradie’s answer to Aladdin’s cave: a stash of lumber, plumbing supplies, sheets of plasterboard, entire windows, roof tiles and assorted hardware. Much of the merchandise was prominently branded with the blue cowboy logo of Bad Bart’s.
Rose flinched. Bad Bart’s was the shoddy discount hardware chain that only cheapskates and DIY first-timers used. Its most recent ad campaign involved a cartoon cowboy brandishing a power drill instead of a six-shooter, which he used to drill holes in planks of wood and rival cowboys alike. The company slogan was ‘Bad Bart’s – where you never pay the hole price!’
It was still a step up from the previous campaign, in which Bad Bart had fired a nail gun. The Advertising Standards Bureau had banned that for ‘copyable violence’. Rose remembered dimly that Renton had pitched a think piece about it to various online publications: ‘Bad Bart is a cultural icon: he’s our generation’s Leatherface, only he uses his chainsaw for good … most of the time.’ Rose had not been convinced, and nor had any editors; Renton had eventually published it on his own website as one of ‘Renton’s Rants’.
The front of the depot was set up like a mock hardware store counter. Leaning on the counter, scrolling through a tablet, was a model-pretty woman around Rose’s age. She was wearing a blue Bad Bart’s apron over a T-shirt and shorts. She looked up. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yeah, I’m looking for … the Moss?’
The girl laughed. ‘You mean Moss the Boss?’
‘Uh, yes.’
She gestured with a jerk of her head. ‘He’s up the back, past electrical.’
Rose made her way through the stacks of hardware. The deeper she went into the shed, the warmer it got – she hoped she wouldn’t have to spend too much time back here. Wiping a damp strand of hair off her forehead, she spotted a handsome man in his early forties, with salt-and-pepper hair and prominent laugh lines. He was holding up two slightly different shower heads and glancing thoughtfully from one to the other.
‘Hi, I’m Rose. Are you –’
‘Yes, I’m Moss the Boss, the foreman. Ha ha ha,’ he shook his head sadly, ‘so imaginative.’ He smiled at Rose’s look of dismay. ‘Don’t worry – call me Moss the Boss. Everyone does. Which of these do you prefer?’
Rose looked at the two near-identical shower heads Moss the Boss was holding. Was this some kind of test? ‘Hard to say,’ she said eventually, ‘they’re so different.’
He laughed, a warm, raspy sound that Rose instantly liked. ‘No flies on you,’ he said. ‘This one’s from Bad Bart’s,’ he held up the shower head in his right hand, ‘and this’ – he held up his left hand – ‘is from Gruntings. It’s nearly twice the price, but it definitely won’t break before the season’s over.’
‘And the Bad Bart’s one will?’
‘Far be it from me to disparage our principal sponsor,’ Moss said, poker-faced. ‘Let’s just say that one is the brand that we use on the show, and the other is the one we stockpile back here after the contestants do their shopping at Bad Bart’s.’
‘I get you.’
‘So,’ he said, putting the Bad Bart’s showerhead back on the shelf, ‘how are you liking Mansions in the Sky?’
‘Well, it’s much bigger than The Dock.’
Moss scowled. ‘Wouldn’t be hard. That show’s shit. They should call it The Crock … of Shit.’
‘Well, I didn’t get to see much of it. I was mostly working indoors.’
‘Oh, don’t get me wrong – the people working on it are good people,’ Moss said. ‘But the show itself has no drama, no tension. A boat sinks? Who wants to see that every week?’
‘So why do people watch Mansions every week?’
‘We’ve got fancy houses people would want to live in, being built by horrible people they want to see fail. It’s a foolproof formula.’
‘I heard it wasn’t going so well this year,’ Rose said.
‘Yeah, because the houses look like shit and everyone’s too nice. But you should’ve seen it two seasons ago. We were a well-oiled machine back then. Mansions was only small, so they let us do whatever we wanted. We were on air once a week on Sundays – it was a feel-good little show where people fixed up houses for the homeless. Damn those Bevans.’
‘The Bevans?’
Moss flexed his hands menacingly. ‘Don’t get me wrong, their shitty shenanigans were great for ratings. The network loved them. The producers loved them. The only thing trashier than their talk was their construction skills. Everyone was tuning in to watch them, because nobody knew what they’d do next. They ruined everything.’
‘Ruined how?’ Rose said.
‘Well, now the network had a hit show on their hands, they wanted to feed the beast with more Bevans. So the next year – that’s last year – they started stunt-casting, getting in people who wanted to act up rather than fix up. Then when that wasn’t exciting enough, suddenly everything had to be as close to live as they could make it, just to get that energy back.’
‘Yep, I heard about that,’ said Rose.
‘It was a nightmare,’ Moss said, shaking his head. ‘We spent the whole season trying to catch up. At least this year we’ve got systems in place, and shit is getting done without too many hassles. Not that the producers care. They’re still shitty because ratings were dropping all last year, and now it’s week five of the new season and they haven’t bounced back.’
‘Well, that’s not your fault, is it?’
‘Course not. For a start, they’ve played it too safe with the casting this year. The couple who got cast as the villains have just focused on building up their house rat
her than tearing everyone else’s down. Come on, I’ll show you.’
He led Rose through the side door of the shed. From there they were on a slight rise, and could see the houses at the end of the Mansions court.
Moss gestured expansively. ‘Welcome to Corona Court. What do you see?’
‘Well,’ said Rose, ‘I see six houses …’
‘Wrong – there are five houses,’ Moss the Boss said. ‘Oh wait, are you counting the site office? Forget about that. We’re talking about the contestants’ houses. Clockwise from the site office, the first house – that’s Alex and Karen Mueller. That one was nearly finished when we got here; most of what they’re doing is interior stuff. They’re pretty confident, which is why they’re this season’s designated villains. Next to them are the Morgans. They’re a mother-daughter team – Jenny and Chloe. Their house is in pretty good shape structurally, but they can’t make their minds up about anything. There’s a lot of putting stuff in and tearing stuff out.’
He pointed at the third house. This was the first one whose exterior didn’t seem to be completed. ‘That’s the Strongs – Dave and Michelle. They’re the middle house, they need some work.’ Rose’s ears pricked up. Michelle? Could that be Dave’s mum? Or his sister? Or someone else he wasn’t romantically involved with? She opened her mouth to ask more, but Moss had already moved on.
‘That’s Gino and George. They’re two young guys, footy mates.’ Their house only looked half-built – a couple of the walls and a section of the roof were still unfinished. Moss sighed. ‘They’re doing what they can, but they’ve really got the rough end of the stick.’
The wind picked up, blowing grit in their faces. Rose surreptitiously wiped her mouth with the back of her hand; Moss spat unselfconsciously on the ground. ‘Dust to dust,’ he said. ‘Yeah, you’ll get used to that. You’ll get used to driving through a car wash once a week, too.’
The house furthest from where they were standing was in a woeful condition, with grimy tarpaulins lashed to the bare frame. ‘I feel sorry for these guys,’ Moss said. ‘The Pereiras. They run a big-name interior design firm, and now they’re living in a tent. You should’ve seen it before we started, though.’
‘So the contestants live in these houses? While they’re renovating them?’
‘Yep,’ Moss said. ‘They’re basically filmed around the clock. There’ll be shots of them eating dinner, lying in bed …’
‘… taking a shower?’ said Rose.
‘They wish!’ Moss said. ‘None of them have running water. This used to be a display village, and the developers got a bit ahead of themselves. There’s no sewerage out here, and all the water they’ve got is tank water. Week nine, we make a big deal out of connecting the water, but you’re not a plumber, so you don’t need to worry about that.’
‘Where am I going to be working?’ Rose said.
‘It’s not exactly up to me,’ Moss said. ‘You’re gonna be a Ninja Tradie, which means that you’re one of the prizes in the weekly challenges. They compete for your services, and whoever wins you gets you for the week. The Muellers won the challenge last week, so you’ll be starting with them.’
‘So where do I start today?’
‘Oh, today’s an outside filming day – the contestants have to be filmed shopping at Bad Bart’s for the sponsorship agreement. And we only do minor stuff and set-ups when they aren’t on set, especially now, when we’re in the “blue sky” phase of the show.’
Rose couldn’t help scrunching her face, and Moss the Boss laughed. ‘I know, right?’ he said. ‘But that’s the way the producers structure the season. This isn’t like The Dock – the construction here is contestant-led. The blue sky phase is when we let the contestants do whatever wacky shit they want to their houses. They’re at it six days a week, but the pace is pretty chilled; you get Sundays off, and on Mondays you’re on-call.’
He checked his watch. ‘It’s a bit early, but go get lunch, and meet me at the site office afterwards. We’ll go through all the houses then.’ He smiled. ‘I’m getting a strong feeling you’ll do well here.’
Rose was excited. A catered lunch! She had to stop herself from skipping back down the hill. There was no queue at the food truck, so she strolled right up and ordered a pulled-pork roll and a bottle of iced tea. Her lunch was quickly assembled and handed over. Rose waited to be told the price. The caterer, a bearded man with a heavily greased quiff, stared silently back, holding out the foil-wrapped roll.
‘Oh, right,’ said Rose, realising the meal was on the house. This day was getting better and better.
When she went to find a seat in the marquee, the only other people there were three other tradies in hi-vis, sitting around a trestle table. They swivelled their heads towards Rose, then loudly continued their conversation.
‘How’d you get on the show, Daz?’ one of them was saying.
‘I saved a kangaroo,’ said the most dishevelled of the trio. They all sniggered.
‘Yeah, well I had to save a wombat – twice!’ said the beefy one.
Rose could see them sneaking glances at her to see how she’d react. ‘I had to save a fart,’ said the skinny, rat-faced one. He farted loudly. ‘Aww no, it got away!’
‘Don’t worry – I’ll get it back for ya,’ the beefy tradie said, and let rip a bubbling fart of his own. All three dissolved into howls of laughter.
Refusing to react, Rose took a seat in the corner. Oh yeah, hazing. She’d forgotten. She should have expected the crew to give the new arrival a hard time, but the warm welcome she’d received so far at Mansions had lulled her into thinking this job might be different. It stood to reason the others would be a bit miffed that she’d been parachuted into the job, especially if she was going to be a featured tradie. But Rose had learned from dealing with her parents that it wasn’t her responsibility to manage their expectations. If she did the best job she could, these guys would either realise her worth, or reveal they were dickheads.
Rose took a bite of her pulled-pork roll. It tasted delicious. Free food always did.
The morning sun glinted on Rose’s newly styled hair as she skipped down the steps of the make-up trailer. Rose had been a little worried they were going to turn her into Barbie, but Nita had only brought her hair up to the warm blonde shade it often reached on its own during summer. The hairdresser had painted on some pale highlights – not the skunk stripes with which Rose had disastrously experimented as a teenager, but just enough tonal variation to suggest depth and body. Nita had also cut a few shorter layers in Rose’s hair, ‘for bounce, darling!’ and blow-dried it in luscious loose waves that rested gently on her shoulders.
When Rose had moved to the make-up chair, Tania, too, had used a lighter hand than Rose had expected. Rather than creating an opaque mask of foundation, with bright lipstick and false eyelashes, Tania had applied a semi-sheer tinted moisturiser – ‘it’s SPF30, which is great for work!’ – dusted on some bronzer, and brushed a subtle shimmer of highlighter along Rose’s cheekbones and under her eyebrows. ‘The look I’m going for is fresh, but not shiny or sweaty.’ She’d also smudged a dark pencil along the line of Rose’s eyelashes and coated them in mascara, wiggling the brush to separate the lashes. Finally, she’d dabbed on some pink-tinted lip balm.
Rose wouldn’t be getting this treatment every day, but Tania had told her the best products to buy, and given her some application tricks to achieve similar effects herself. So at least she wouldn’t ever look like a dead-eyed ghoul on camera.
Now, Rose tugged at the hem of her T-shirt. The costuming she wasn’t quite so sure about. When she’d arrived on set, she’d been sent to a truck she hadn’t seen before, where a chirpy costumer gave her the once-over, then handed her a white T-shirt and navy-blue shorts. The shorts were standard workwear, and the T-shirt had Rose’s name printed on the right and the Mansions in the Sky logo on the left: a McMansion pe
rching on a fluffy cloud.
Both the shirt and shorts were a little tighter and shorter than she’d usually wear at work. ‘Do you have the next size up?’ Rose had asked.
‘The fitted style looks much better on camera,’ the wardrobe guy had said. ‘Baggy clothes make you look like a slob.’
He’d also kitted Rose out with a brand-new tool belt and pair of work boots, courtesy of Blueys, the Mansions workwear sponsor. Rose had buckled the belt around her waist, but the wardrobe guy had stopped her.
‘Lower.’
Rose had shot him a look. ‘Really?’
‘Yep. We want it sitting on the hips.’
Now, as Rose checked out her reflection in the side window of a nearby van, she had to admit these TV people knew what they were doing. She looked like the best version of herself, rather than someone pretending to fit in on TV. She was still a little worried about how to act in front of the cameras, but at least she didn’t have to worry about her appearance.
Her first meet-and-greet scene today was with the Muellers. Yesterday afternoon Moss the Boss had taken her through each of the houses and given her a guide to how far along each couple was in their renovation. The Muellers were in the lead: they’d got the best house at the start, and they clearly knew what they were doing.
This confident attitude hadn’t endeared them to the audiences at home, and neither had their brisk professionalism. ‘If the viewers like banter, then they’re shit out of luck with these guys,’ Moss had said. ‘But from our perspective, that’s what makes them easy to work with.’
Rose wondered if part of the reason she was being introduced to the Muellers first was that the producers wanted to soften their image a little. Who better to banter with than the hero tradie who’d saved a fluffy little dog from drowning?
A PA appeared, startling Rose, who hadn’t heard her coming. ‘She’s out of make-up now,’ the PA said into her headset. ‘Travelling.’ The PA headed purposefully off, leaving Rose to scamper after her.