by Ali Ahearn
Frances could feel her rage building as surely as the storm was building out to sea. ‘No, but given your specialty of bedding men who are good with their hands I’d hoped some of it might have rubbed off.’
Joni shrugged absently, her gaze darting to a spot just beyond Frances’s head where some leaves were rustling. ‘It was how good they were with their hands in other areas that I was most concerned with.’
Frances frowned at Joni’s lack of spark. The immediate spike of guilt she’d felt over saying something totally shitty seemed obsolete when her sister didn’t even appear to be paying attention.
‘God, JoJo, do you think you could actually look at me while we’re arguing –’ Frances broke off as Joni darted to her left and lunged at the ground. Her brow furrowed deeply as unease crawled up her spine. ‘What the hell is going on?’
Joni rose, grinning, her hands cradling a very non-indigenous looking species. ‘Des. Oh, Des,’ she whispered, pressing kisses on his tiny ferret head. ‘Thank God, I thought I’d lost you to the jungle.’
Frances stared agape at her sister and the offending creature, quickly scanning behind and above her to see if they were being watched. She turned back to face Joni.
‘Are you out of your mind?’ she hissed, placing her hand over the mike pack to muffle her words. ‘I thought we’d discussed this?’
Joni pulled Desmond in close to her chest. ‘Shh, Frankie, everyone will hear you.’
‘Hear me?’ she hissed. ‘There are cameras all over this godforsaken island. They’ll bloody see you and that elongated rat long before they hear me. It’s contraband. Are you trying to get us kicked off? How the hell did you even get it through Customs?’
Frances had narrowly avoided a gloved hand because her sunscreen came to one hundred and ten mils!
‘I used a little rodent valium and tucked him into my bra. I couldn’t leave him behind, Frankie.’
Joni was looking at her with those puppy dog eyes, large and round, and as full of affront as if Frankie had suggested they eat Des for dinner.
‘We’re not allowed pets on the island, Joni! It’s not a bloody holiday camp. We’re not allowed to bring food, make-up or any luxuries at all. They briefed us on this.’
‘I don’t recall them saying anything about pets,’ Joni answered defensively.
Frances suppressed the urge to yell, spurring her eye twitch to life. ‘I guess that’s because they probably thought it was self-evident.’
Joni stroked Des against her cheek. ‘Please, Frankie. He depends on me.’
‘And what about me?’ Frances raged, forgetting to keep her voice down. ‘I’m depending on you too.’
The Stapler, standing with Lex, surveyed the scene with a beatific smile.
‘Yep,’ she grinned. ‘The boys in London really outdid themselves this time. I’ve got two of the highest-rating losers going.’
As she heard the commotion between Joni and Frances, she yanked on the cameraman’s sleeve. He’d been filming the Sorority Sisters, wearing their teeny tiny white t-shirts as they decorated each other with flowers, praying for the deluge to begin.
‘Get that,’ she ordered. ‘What are they fighting about? Do we have a tree camera somewhere over there?’
Lex winced at the sisters’ hostile body language. Whatever they were arguing about, it looked intensely private. And he’d earlier felt a strange affinity with the magenta-lipped, green-haired young woman scoffing pink doughnuts like it had been her last day on earth. There was something about someone who ate with such gusto. Who did anything with gusto. It reminded him of himself. When he’d been young and full of possibilities. It seemed like a million years ago now. It had certainly felt like his last day on earth, as his twenty-year career hit an all-time low. ‘Leave it,’ he said.
Sally turned on him. ‘I don’t think so, you great wazzock. That’s what we’re here fer. Exploit their divisions. Turn them against each other.’
Lex looked right into Sally’s perfect face. ‘No.’
‘This ain’t no social club, Lex. They know what they signed on fer. This is the stuff of great telly.’
Lex winced again at Sally’s definition of great. As far as he was concerned, Great Television was the ultimate oxymoron. He put his hand in front of the camera. ‘We have plenty of time for that.’
Joni didn’t move for a moment. Then she carefully tucked Des into the money belt at her waist. ‘Since when?’ she asked quietly. ‘Since when have you ever needed me?’
Frances opened her mouth and shut it again as her twitch kicked in to overdrive. Every day. That’s what she wanted to say. Every day. How many times over the last seven years had she yearned to have her sister nearby? At the end of a phone or across the table at a coffee shop?
Joni advanced towards Frances. ‘You don’t need me. Not now. Not ever.’
No, no, no. Joni’s words cut into her like a blunt, rusty razor blade. They made her want to cry at their unfairness. But anger was easier. God knew she’d had enough practice as far as Joni was concerned.
‘Bollocks.’ She poked Joni hard in the chest to stop her from coming any closer. ‘I just learned really early on that you couldn’t be relied on. Today is a classic example,’ Frances hissed. ‘I’m over there trying to build our shelter and you’re chasing around after a useless animal that, if it’s discovered, will get us kicked off.’ She felt the sharp prick of threatening tears retreat with each word. ‘This is just typical you. Not pulling your weight and me picking up your slack, like I’ve done our whole lives.’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry you’ve been burdened with me,’ Joni snapped.
‘So you bloody should be. You know this world doesn’t revolve around you and all your bloody self-indulgent shite, right? Don’t you think the rest of us have problems too? But, oh no, it’s all about Joni, Joni, Joni.’
‘Fine then,’ Joni sneered. ‘I don’t have to put up with this crap. Consider yourself relieved of your sisterly duties.’ And she marched back to their clearing.
Frances followed, watching as Joni poked through the tools. At The Stapler’s urging, Darryl hotfooted it over to them. ‘Looks like our Feuding Heiresses are up to their old tricks,’ he commentated, seemingly trying to sound like David Attenborough but coming off as a total nob. ‘Could cracks be appearing already?’
Frances wanted to slap him as she pushed past, but Joni was extracting a spade and leaving.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Frances demanded, grabbing her sister’s arm.
‘Fending for myself,’ Joni yelled, shaking off Frances’s hand. ‘Apparently, I haven’t been doing that enough for the last seven years.’ And she stormed off.
Frances watched her go, followed closely by Darryl.
Looked like they hadn’t had to ‘act’, after all.
A massive crack of thunder shook every tree on the island, and Frances saw Joni falter briefly before continuing. Frances shivered involuntarily and opened her mouth to tell her to come back, as a familiar sense of worry roared to life. What the hell was she going to do with a spade and decreasing light? But something stopped her from speaking. Maybe it’d do her sister good to take sole responsibility, for once? And it wasn’t like they were alone. The production company had eyes everywhere and it wouldn’t look good if one of their ‘stars’ were to wind up falling off a cliff or being eaten by a crocodile.
Yet again, someone would pull Joni out of the trouble she’d inevitably find.
Frances returned to the task at hand. She needed to use four of the sturdier saplings as corner posts (luckily, the ground was soft), lash the rest together in five separate sections to form the roof and walls (thank God for the rope) and then line them with the waterproof foliage.
Easy. Not.
But Frances set about doing it anyway.
Within the hour, she had the posts in, the walls roughly tied together and was just finishing up the roof section. She became aware of a presence beside her and turned. Standing there, looking
at her as if she were road kill and he were a buzzard, was Takahiro Miyagi.
And, of course, that other buzzard, Darryl.
‘You have dishonoured me. And my family.’ Takahiro’s voice was low with the unmistakable edge of crazy. His eyes burned with a fiery zeal. ‘Miyagis play to win. You, and your seester, will pay.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ He sounded like Yoda. But had he just threatened her? And Joni? In front of a television camera?
Takahiro withdrew as quickly as he’d arrived and she watched open-mouthed as he stalked away, head held high. Darryl followed him, saying, ‘Only hours into the competition, and it’s already stepped up to the next level. Now it’s a matter of honour.’
Fab. As if Joni’s incompetence weren’t enough, now she had to sleep with one eye open in case a crazy Japanese Napoleon decided to exact revenge.
Not that she had time to worry about that now. The storm was almost upon them. She could smell rain in the air, and felt her insides quiver. She had no idea where Joni was, but she’d be back. All that mattered right now was this. Their shelter.
The roof complete, Frances stood, hauling it over her head. With a bit of grunting and groaning, and standing on tiptoes, she managed to angle it so it was sitting atop the four posts. Which just left the lashing together.
Unfortunately, even on tiptoes, the going was slow, as Frances could barely reach. She wanted to throw herself on the ground in frustration and indulge in a tantrum.
Too high. Too bloody high. Way to go, Frannie.
But, ever aware of the cameras, she instead looked around for something – a rock, maybe – she could drag over to give her some extra height.
‘How about I give you a hand?’
Holding on to one corner of her creation, Frances twisted her head, her gaze falling on Nick, one half of the Outback Exes. He had the bluest eyes and, for a moment, Frances forgot she was living in the midst of a Jurassic jungle, with a tropical storm bearing down on her.
‘Err, thank you,’ she said as Nick ducked to retrieve the nearby rope and reached over the top of her to lash the first corner.
‘Just hold it for me,’ he murmured.
Frances felt the words ooze, like swamp goo, down her spine. She knew he hadn’t meant them to be suggestive but something tightened deep inside her. She could feel his heat all around her as he lifted both his arms, expanding his chest even further. Her back was to his front, his hips brushing her mike pack, his chin occasionally grazing her hair.
Frances glanced to her side and was rewarded with an eyeful of tanned, bulging bicep. She shut her eyes against the urge to lick it. But then her sense of smell took over and she involuntarily dragged his scent a little deeper into her lungs. He smelled like salt and sand and coffee. Like a man. A real man.
Man-who-worked-the-land man.
Capable, bicep-bulging man.
‘You’ve done well,’ Nick murmured, admiring the curve of Frances’s arms. ‘You got some muscles going on there.’
Frances swayed slightly. ‘My personal trainer, Guy, is big on weights.’
Nick smiled. ‘Lucky Guy.’
‘Nick! What the fark are you doing?’
Frances’s eyelids flew open. Cheryl, or Koala Tits, as Joni had christened her, stormed towards them, Australian marsupials bouncing with each step.
‘It’s okay, darl,’ Nick assured her in a low, casual voice. But Frances wasn’t sure if it was for her benefit or his ex-wife’s. ‘Can’t let down a neighbour now, can we?’
Cheryl glared at them both, hands on hips, obviously torn between wanting to scratch Frances’s eyes out and the ingrained Aussie culture of lending a hand to your neighbour.
‘All right,’ she huffed, giving Frances a hostile glare. ‘But hurry. It’s gunna piss down any moment.’
Nick had the lashing and had affixed the waterproofing in no time. ‘Thanks,’ Frances murmured as he brushed his hands on the fabric covering his butt.
Nick gave her a mock salute. ‘Great job with the Jap.’ He grinned before heading back to his already constructed, very sturdy-looking abode.
She stood staring after him for a long time.
And even when the first, fat, raindrop landed on her nose, Frances was oblivious.
Chapter 6
Joni
‘Are you fookers hard enough?’
Even before the question, screeched by The Stapler via a redundant megaphone, had registered in Joni’s waterlogged ears, her brain was firing back an arch response. Not bloody likely. Nowhere near. And never will be.
The insistent backbeat of the rain had been building, to be joined by winds howling like something from a horror movie, deep cracks of primal thunder and huge arcs of tropical lightning breaking the sky open. It was cold and wet in the burrow, and getting colder and wetter by the second.
The rapid shaking from her jacket, which, until a few moments ago had reminded her that Des was still alive, had slowed to the odd, miserable shudder.
And she feared for them both.
The insane buzz of some jungle insect was so loud, Joni had visions of it coming for her, cat-sized and intent on sucking the marrow from her bones. Before the storm struck proper, there had been an eerie stillness, a collectively held breath under the thick green sky. But with the storm had come the stark bite of real fear. It was so dark, and the dark held memories that Joni wasn’t ready to face …
‘Only one thing for it, D, my fine furry friend,’ she whispered to him, realising he probably wouldn’t hear her above the tropical storm raging around them. Of course, Frankie might have declared Des’s lack of knowledge of the English language to be a greater obstacle than Joni’s lack of volume, but Joni was a great believer that if you spoke from the heart, animals always understood. ‘Time to go eat some shit.’
As she wriggled out of the burrow, she almost careened into three mobile digital taping units, their long noses pointing determinedly at Joni’s burrow. She swallowed the thick wave of self-loathing that rose in her as she realised her fear and loneliness had been unnecessary. With all the creative and technical support, there were more people here, within three square feet of the burrow, than lived in her block of flats back home. Joni realised with a shock that The Stapler had decided her burrow was where the action was. That Joni would be the first to crack.
For another woman, such knowledge may well have been the catalyst for her to return to the hole, determined not to let an international viewing audience of one hundred million see her fall from grace.
But Joni was comfortable with weakness.
She peered heroically out through the blinding rain, past the lights of the mobile units, and tried to recall which way it was back to that lacy fringe where the jungle met the beach. She attempted as best she could to brush the caked-on peat off her silly green dress, lurched forward like a myopic drunkard, and felt Des rally with her determined gait. She could not see more than three steps ahead of her, and the fat, warm raindrops were pounding into her so hard it was like being spat on by a machine gun.
She was about to stop, admitting she had no earthly idea how to go about crawling back to Frankie, and debase herself yet further by asking for directions from the posse of cameras trailing her. But just then, the sky lit up like Alexandra Palace on Guy Fawkes Night, and she had a perfect view maybe fifty yards ahead.
It had seemed like miles when she had come trudging back this way hours ago, full of irritation and injury. Another flash illuminated a little structure that seemed to be holding its end up, even despite the punishing rain and howling wind. Its rough roof appeared to be keeping the rain out and, through the cracks in the branches that made up the structure’s sides, Joni could see a warm glow. She tried to suppress a surge of pride, and reminded herself that Frankie had always paid close attention when their father had taken them on adventure camping trips as kids.
He’d really wanted boys.
While Frankie had done her best to soak up every lesson, and outdo any hapless m
ale cousin, friend or hanger-on who’d come along for the ride, Joni had skived off and managed to find a quiet spot to sunbathe or have a fag. Or both.
Joni lurched slowly and painfully across the fifty yards between her and the promise of relief.
‘JoJo, is that you?’
Joni caught her breath at Frankie’s words. Twice in one day.
‘Yeah, it’s me. Can I …?’
Frankie didn’t make her finish what she was saying, but reached out one clean, dry hand, and hauled Joni and Des into the safety of her little enclosure. It was small, but seemed like the Taj Mahal. The floor was mostly dry and a small fireplace held embers that glowed strongly. Two sleeping bags were laid out at the sides of the structure, near their wood and the starter rations.
If Frankie’s initial greeting had caused Joni to hope her sister’s fury had abated somewhat since she had stormed off three hours before, the look on her face extinguished it. Frankie looked as though she were made of stone but for the tic in her eye, which Joni could see, even in the dim light, was fluttering madly.
‘You crazy cow.’ Frankie’s words sounded tight and strangled. ‘Where the bloody hell did you think you were going? You knew there was a sodding tropical sodding storm building.’
‘I had a plan.’ It sounded lame even to Joni’s ears.
‘It was not a plan, Joni. It was a hole.’
She followed me? ‘You saw?’
Frankie quickly corrected any misapprehension about sisterly concern that Joni might have been developing. ‘I had to get in enough firewood before the storm drenched everything. So, yeah, I saw the hole.’
‘Burrow,’ Joni said, in a small act of defiance.
‘What?’
‘It was a burrow.’
Frankie laughed suddenly, her lovely alto sounding almost forgiving. She smoothed her jeans fussily, as though she were wearing Valentino, and Joni realised Frankie had changed into even more practical clothes. She felt even more silly in her filthy green dress.
‘Burrows are horizontal. That bloody thing was a grave. And it would have filled up with water and killed any animal stupid enough to try to take shelter in it in this bloody shagging Old Testament storm.’