‘Morning, Gary,’ I reply, as I turn the tap off and give him my most winning smile. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late.’
‘Go on then,’ he says, noticeably not returning my smile, ‘what’s your excuse today?’
Silence hangs between us for a second as I think what to say.
Well, Gary, despite being incredibly hungover I managed to drag my arse to work and was going to be on time until I was approached by a talent scout who offered me the chance to star in the returning series of LoveWrecked. I bite my lip; the truth won’t cut it.
‘I—’
‘No, actually,’ he says, holding out a hand to silence me. ‘I don’t want to hear it. Look, Kim, don’t get me wrong, I like you but I’m running a business here and I can’t keep making excuses for you. I think you’re great and I know you’ve been through a lot over the past few years, I do, but you’ve got to get a grip of your life. You can’t keep treating yourself like shit and I can’t continue to employ someone who has given up.’ I know where this is headed; I open my mouth to speak, desperately wracking my brains for an excuse, a reason Gary should keep me on but, before I can say anything, Gary cuts me off. ‘I’m sorry, Kim, but I’ve got to let you go.’
My mouth falls open and I stare at him, momentarily unable to speak. Gary has been threatening to fire me for ages but I’ve always managed to keep this job, even if it is by the skin of my teeth. The pile of unpaid bills next to my front door is screaming at me to fight for this, to protest, to beg for forgiveness, to tell him how much I need this job.
‘Gary, please, I need this—’
‘What you need is to sort yourself out.’
Maybe I could say more to convince him but I don’t; we’ve been here many times before and I doubt it will make a difference and I would do nothing more than embarrass myself. Instead, I nod my head, resigned to the fact that he must do this, unknot my apron and hand it back to him.
‘You’ll be OK, Kim, use this as an opportunity,’ he says, taking a twenty-pound note out of the till and offering it to me.
‘Yeah,’ I say, my voice as cheery as I can make it. ‘You’re right, opportunity.’ It feels a bit awkward taking the money but it’s not as if I don’t need it. So, numbly, I accept and place it into my handbag alongside the business card from the talent scout.
When I arrive home from work, I slot my key into the front door of my apartment and head straight down the hall to my bedroom, but not before I’ve had the chance to scoop up the latest notes that have been posted through my door. The longer the bills go unpaid, the redder the ink that is used on the letters and it seems no red ink was spared on my letters. There’s also a handwritten note from Mrs Price, my landlord, reminding me for ‘the third and final time’ that my rent is overdue.
My bedroom is a safe place; there’s not enough room to swing a cat in here but it feels like home. I flop down on my unmade bed with a sigh. I feel numb. What the hell am I going to do now? My phone pings, the screen lighting up at the arrival of a text. Lifting it to my face, I read:
Hi Kim, long time no speak but I couldn’t NOT text. Can you believe it? LoveWrecked is coming back. This is SO GOOD. I can’t wait to see the randomers that get chosen, it’s going to be so exciting. Hope we can do our wine and watch sessions again, it’s been too long and I miss you a lot. Love, Zoe.
My stomach squeezes in a way that for the first time today isn’t linked to my hangover or being fired. It makes complete sense that Zoe, my former colleague and friend, chose to text me about it, although I take it from her message she doesn’t know that I’m one of the randomers who have been chosen. She is right about one thing: it has been too long. It’s been almost five years since the two of us curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine and the good humour needed to watch the cringe-worthy contestants of LoveWrecked compete for the cash prize.
We even joked how good it would be to spend the summer in a luxury villa in the sun. A summer free from work and responsibilities of the world, one filled with wine, fun, drama and survival challenges. Who could say no to that? If I remember correctly we even promised each other that we’d apply for that year’s show. Although, I said to her at the time that even if we did apply we would never, ever get chosen; the producers wouldn’t want us. I remember how Zoe looked at me, aghast.
‘Why?’ she asked, jumping to her feet. ‘Am I not sexy enough?’ She then proceeded to strut around my living room.
‘Even if you were,’ I said, ‘nothing kills a vibe more than announcing you’re a police officer.’
‘They might think it’s sexy. I could even turn up to my audition in my uniform, or the Halloween costume version of my uniform.’
I remember spitting my wine out at that. ‘Do you want to get fired?’ Policewomen costumes, along with naughty nurse and saucy schoolteacher costumes, sickened us both.
‘Kim. It’s all about priorities. Think of the money.’ At that Zoe sashayed around the room pretending to arrest imaginary bad guys with so much sass and bum-wiggling that I erupted in laughter and said I would support her application wholeheartedly.
I pull myself back to the present. That was then; my life is very different now.
It’s amazing how much life can change in such a short period of time and how much a person can lose. I’m a world away from the fame and fortune to be found on LoveWrecked. The type of person who is fired from work for constant lateness, who is behind on their rent and hasn’t paid bills in months is surely not the type of contestant LoveWrecked typically goes for. And yet, this year people have been chosen at random and I was chosen. Me, the girl with dirty knickers strewn across her bedroom floor and half-drunk cups of coffee covering every surface; the girl whose home is a microcosm of her mess of a life. I can’t deny that it would be nice to get away from it all and spend the summer in a gorgeous villa somewhere in the Mediterranean; it would be nice to meet some new people and maybe start afresh. I could leave my shitty, sad excuse for a life behind and, if I won, maybe I could start all over again, in a new place or even a new country, away from this city that is a constant reminder of my failings.
I reach my hand into my bag and pull out the business card. Sam Day, Talent Scout, Minerva Productions is typed across it, underneath which is a phone number and email address. It would be so simple: I’ve been chosen, they want me. The hand holding the business card shakes as my mind whirrs with worrying questions.
Do I want to do this, to go on television and allow myself to be scrutinised and judged by millions of people? Do I want people to know who I am? What I’ve done?
And then there’s the unavoidable question: after everything that’s happened today, do I have much of a choice? If I won £100,000 I could send some money to my mum, who I basically abandoned after the incident. A lump sum could make up for the loss of contact, and then I could disappear. It’s a lot of money, far more than I could have ever made at the pub, even before I lost my job. My finger hovers over my phone screen and I punch in the eleven digits of Sam’s mobile number. Before I allow my brain and better judgement to stop me, I press the green call button.
Sam answers after two rings. ‘Sam Day.’
‘Hi, Sam, it’s Kimberley King.’
‘Kim, so great to hear from—’
‘I accept,’ I say, cutting him off. ‘I want to be on LoveWrecked.’ And with that, I’ve done it and all I can do now is hope that I’ve made the right choice.
Chapter Four
Spyland.co.uk – News, Scandals and all the latest Gossip from your favourite celebrities
BREAKING NEWS: LoveWrecked line-up leaked: who’s in the cast?
Posted on Friday 25th July
The identities of some of the LoveWrecked cast have been leaked ahead of the show returning to our screens tomorrow evening.
While the full and official line-up is yet to be released, an inside source (who SpyLand will be forever indebted to) has let slip the names of five Islanders that will enter the villa this summer. SpyLand are s
haring their details, images and our thoughts.
The first on the list of names is Carly Chu. Carly is a twenty-eight-year old actress and model from Kent. This tall, slender, dark-haired beauty will definitely get hearts racing in the villa. Plus, rumour has it, she’s a bit of bitch. Doesn’t she sound fun?
Then there’s Jack Peaks, a twenty-five-year old estate agent from Essex. We’re hoping that this fake-tanned, white-toothed, hair-gelled chappie is as naughty as he looks.
Third on the list is Kimberley King, a thirty-two-year old barmaid from Liverpool. We hear she’s a pretty wild party girl, so she should definitely keep things lively in the villa.
Mo Khan is a thirty-two-year old restaurateur from Birmingham. His gently stubbled chin makes him seem older and wiser than the others – let’s hope not.
Valentina Novak is a twenty-six-year old DJ from Russia. She looks like a pint-sized pixie who packs a punch.
That’s all we have for now, folks, but you can rely on SpyLand to keep you informed as everything progresses in the villa. And in true LoveWrecked style, I’m sure they’ll all be harbouring some secrets. Tell us what you think in the comments section below.
Comments section
@M155ch1ef: Phwoar. Look at Jack. He is hot. Contestants are chosen at random? As if. LoveWrecked, share your algorithm with me… or failing that Jack’s email? ;)
@Prinny_Jasmine: @M155ch1ef Getting an email isn’t quite as exciting as finding a Golden Ticket in a chocolate bar though is it?
@trashqueen2000: @M155ch1ef Well if they weren’t chosen at random, then how? #LoveWrecked
@M155ch1ef: @Prinny_Jasmine @trashqueen2000 Don’t know how they were chosen, but I hope one of them is eliminated by turning into a giant blueberry. HAHA. #LoveWrecked #WillyWonka
Chapter Five
Kimberley
Saturday 26th July, 11:05
Fellow travellers throng around me and I doubt that any of them are the other Islanders as the crowd seems to consist almost exclusively of teenagers, all dressed in T-shirts with their nicknames emblazoned on the back. They shout enthusiastically to one another, buoyed by what is probably their first holiday without their parents, and the wheels of their suitcases click as they roll over the black and white tiled floor of the recently revamped Heraklion Airport. In unison, we head towards arrivals. I loop my fingers around the straps of my backpack and adjust it so it’s sitting on a different part of my shoulders, hoping to relieve the pain that lugging it around is causing. Bag adjusted, I stride towards a short, slightly rotund man holding up a small placard emblazoned with my name.
‘King?’ says the man as I approach. He is dressed in a grey T-shirt that strains across his large belly and he wears dirty beige shorts that reveal very hairy legs. The man narrows his eyes at me, in a look that seems to tell me I don’t quite meet his expectations, whatever those expectations were.
‘Yeah, I’m Kim King. That’s me,’ I reply. And to avoid any confusion, I point at myself and then at the placard. The man nods, unsmiling.
‘You late. Others at the boat already.’ He glares at me and huffs as if the time it took for my plane to land and the airline to unload my luggage was entirely within my control. I want to tell him as much but before I can speak he turns away from me and heads towards the airport doors.
‘Great to meet you too,’ I mutter under my breath. I don’t know what I was expecting but certainly not a welcome like this. It’s already been a long morning so the prospect of further travel with a grumpy local isn’t exactly in keeping with the paradise that was promised.
Well, I guess things can only get better and I follow him as he weaves around the other arrivals towards the airport’s exit.
It feels unreal that I’m here, but already the feeling of not being in my flat or the pub is lifting my spirits. That and the fact that, for now, I’m off the hook for my rent – my landlady is such a fan of the show that she’s generously let it go (although there is the strong possibility she will be able to make that and more by giving interviews to gossip mags about what I’m really like). My mind keeps returning, though, to the pile of other bills, Mum, and the small matter of what I am going to do after this is over. I’m unlike past contestants, winners or losers. I don’t want big sponsorship deals or interviews in magazines; I just want the money, cash in hand. It is essential that I never lose sight of the fact that this is a competition and I need to win it, no matter what.
The airport doors whoosh open as I approach them and my skin is enveloped by the warmth of the late morning air. England, no matter how warm, could never match this. The air presses around me with all the intensity of the Mediterranean in summer, an intensity heightened by the craziness that is arrivals at Heraklion Airport; it’s like rush hour on steroids. A sea of motorbikes and taxis crowding around the exit, riders honking their horns and shouting to the arrivals touting for business. I cough, waving a hand in front of my face as the fumes cloud from the many running engines.
I hover on my tiptoes, searching for my chaperone among it all and catch sight of him waving his placard in front of a battered, red minivan. I elbow my way through the mass of bodies, ignoring the many shouted offers of a taxi. I heave my backpack into the back of the minivan and clamber in after it. The engine sounds and I barely have time to slide the door closed before he jerks the car forward and whisks me away.
‘How far is it to the boat?’ I ask as we whizz along the narrow Cretan streets, my driver expertly dodging around the various street food stalls, numerous poorly parked cars, and even two old women shouting at each other in the middle of the road.
‘Very close. Five minutes only.’ The driver points a chubby finger in the distance. I grasp the back of the driver’s chair and lean forward, squinting in an effort to make out whatever the man is pointing at.
‘Wow,’ I whisper as the azure-blue sea comes into focus, my view obstructed only by all sorts of boats, from monster yachts to miniscule rowing boats. I’ve not seen anything quite like this in a while.
The van slows as it edges closer to the port and approaches a group of people crowded around backpacks just like the one I was sent before departure. If these people have the LoveWrecked regulation backpack, then these people are my fellow Islanders, the people standing in between me and £100,000.
The minivan is within several metres of them now and they all turn to watch me arrive. Four of them: two men and two women. Sweat pricks in my armpits as I feel their eyes on me; there’s something about the way they watch me, like I’m prey. I swallow, my mouth dry, and avert my gaze, choosing instead to fiddle with the straps of my backpack rather than enter into a staring contest. One of the men catches my attention as he waves and strides towards the advancing minivan. He wears a spray-on tight blue tank top which clings to every muscle on his six pack; his chest is pushed forward and his broad shoulders thrown back and there’s a huge, white-toothed smile on his face. The man’s eyes are bright with excitement and his smile is warm enough to melt away my initial nervousness. I can’t help but smile back; it’s nice to have a proper welcome. The moment the driver cuts the engine, the tank-topped man wrenches the door open.
‘Hey,’ he says, thrusting his hand forward to grab my bag. ‘I’m Jack Peaks. Why don’t you let me get that for you, darling?’
‘That’s very kind,’ I say, slightly taken aback at his forwardness, ‘but don’t feel like you have to, I definitely overpacked.’
‘Don’t you worry. The boys can handle it,’ he replies, flexing his muscles so his biceps bulge.
‘Well, I wouldn’t want to say no to the boys,’ I say with a laugh, sliding my backpack towards him. The tilt of Jack’s head makes me think he didn’t think he was making a joke. ‘I’m Kim,’ I add, eager to move the conversation along. ‘Kim King.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ says Jack, grunting as he tugs my bag onto his back. His grunt confirms my suspicion that I overpacked. It has been such a long time since I travelled anywhere and I seem to have l
ost the knack of how to pack appropriately. ‘Come on then, Kim King,’ he says with another wide grin and a wink. ‘Come and meet the others.’
‘Sir, yes, sir.’ I give him a mock military salute but again, his expression tells me my playfulness is lost on him. Jack Peaks seems nice enough but maybe not the smartest tool in the box.
I slam the door behind me and turn to give the driver a wave of thanks, but the driver’s seat is empty. I glance around for him and see that he’s clambering onto a boat bobbing about on the waves at the end of a rickety wooden jetty. The boat, like the jetty, looks past its best. At one time, the boat was probably white but age, life on the water, and a distinct lack of care have dirtied the colour. The paintwork flakes in numerous places and the windows are clouded. I’m not convinced this little, aged boat is up to the job of carrying six of us plus backpacks across the water.
‘Everyone,’ says Jack, addressing the group at large, ‘this is…’ He trails off. I stare at him; please tell me he’s not forgotten my name already?
‘Kim,’ I say, raising my hand in what can only be described as an awkward wave. I wasn’t sure what else to do; it would seem a bit weird and formal to shake everyone’s hand in turn, surely?
‘Mo,’ says the other man, reaching out a large hard. Maybe offering a handshake would have been the better option? Appearance-wise the two men couldn’t be more different: Jack is muscular and all on display with his tight T-shirt, his hair is dyed blonde and teeth clinically whitened, whereas Mo’s appearance is softer and less polished. He wears a salmon-pink linen shirt that hangs loosely, his hair is long, and it curls slightly on the top of his head; he’s somewhat older than the others. For all Jack Peaks is a ball of nervous excited energy, Mo Khan seems calmer, more reserved.
‘Valentina,’ says one of the women. She doesn’t offer her hand to shake but returns my awkward wave. Valentina has platinum-blonde hair cut in a pixie crop and a petite frame. A piercing protrudes from her bottom lip and she wears frayed denim jeans with military-style boots. She is like a punk version of Tinkerbell.
The Islanders Page 2