It makes me curse the idiot who designed this task, probably sitting somewhere in an air-conditioned office in LA.
The worst part about the whole ordeal is that all contestants have to finish the race if they want to enjoy the tapas and sangria that await them at the finish line.
So, even though everyone else is already done, I get to keep filming Dumb and Dumber as they attempt to make it to the end without drowning or getting a concussion.
“Comeon, Duncan. We’re so close…I think,” Molly says, dragging her partner up from the sand for the umpteenth time. And then she shouts, to anyone—producer or otherwise—who might answer her, “Weareclose, right?”
I’m the only one nearby, but I don’t say a word.
Mostly because I’m practically panting, following them through the sand.
But also because I want Molly to suffer. Even just a little bit.
Finally, after what feels like another forty-five minutes, but is probably only five, they reach the end. Tomlinson claps Duncan on the back as he rips off his blindfold, his face red and sweaty. There’s a local medic standing nearby, eyeing Duncan wearily, in case he passes out—and I don’t blame him. I can’t even begin to imagine how soaked his heavy suit jacket must be.
“Great job, you two. It was slow going, but you made it. How do you feel?”
Duncan just throws out a thumbs-up and then wipes his face with his sleeve.
Molly ignores Tomlinson. She swipes her thumb under each eye, wiping away sweat and a few streaks of mascara that had run from the heat. She then turns her focus on the rest of the cast, all of whom are already seated at the long dining table that has been set up on the sandy beach, white tablecloth swaying gently in the wind, and linen umbrellas providing badly needed shade. A few contestants have stripped down to their underwear and Molly does the same, showing off a tiny leopard-print bra and matching panties that I think might actually be a bathing suit.
Sneaky. I wonder who tipped her off.
She probably threatened a PA.
“I guess we lost,” she says, her tone more bored than annoyed. But as she settles into a seat at the table, I catch her hand wandering to her scalp, where she picks at it for a few seconds before dropping her hand to her lap.
Interesting. She’s anxious about something.
I shrug it off when I can’t deduce a reason why—after all, she’s sitting on a beach in Barcelona next to a hot dude while being served a platter of authentic pintxos, croquetas, and torreznos, along with a few other small plates I don’t recognize.
After filming a short scene where the contestants mingle and enjoy their reward, Demi pulls Molly, Duncan, and me aside to film a quick confessional. I set up the shot on the sidewalk near a bank of bushes that border the beach, with the sand and tourists as a backdrop. The contrasting tropical green of the foliage and creamy white sand are so aesthetically pleasing that I preen internally at my perfectly composed shot.
“Alright, Molly, Duncan—that was quite the race,” Demi says, taking her place next to the tripod and camera. I watch the two in the pop-out viewfinder. “Going into this activity, what were you thinking?”
“I totally thought we would win, Demi,” Duncan says. She lets out a frustrated huff that only I can hear.
“Can you say that again, but leave my name out?” Demi asks in a faux-friendly tone that I now know is her Producer Voice.
“Oh, right. Uh…” Duncan stumbles over his words, clearly flustered, but Molly puts her hand on his arm.
“We really thought we would win. Duncan has done five marathons in the past ten years, and a few half-marathons too, if I remember correctly. Right, babe?”
Duncan nods.
“So, you figured you had this one in the bag?”
“Wetotallythought we had this one in the bag,” Molly parrots, and Demi smirks.
Duncan and Molly yammer on about the activity for another ten minutes or so, and then Demi wraps them, immediately stalking off toward the group without waiting for any of us.
“She’scranky,” Molly snarks, and I can’t help it—I let out a soft laugh. She turns to me, a flash of surprise on her face that quickly dissolves back into her regular disdainful glare. It reminds me so much of the look she used to give her parents whenever I was over at her house in high school: pure hatred.
But that was always a distraction from the real emotion she was grappling with: sadness. Between this and noticing her picking earlier, I’m starting to get the feeling that something is going on with Molly behind the scenes that she isn’t talking about.
I mean, not that she would talk to me about it.
Although…I guess there’s no one here shewouldtalk to about anything that is bothering her.
