‘We could prep him to pass,’ Lockie thinks out loud.
‘You’re kind of horrible,’ I say.
‘And you’re very naive,’ he claps back with a laugh.
I swear, he thinks I’m flirting with him, as opposed to insulting him to his face.
We stare at each other until the next hopeful comes in: a woman with long extensions, lashes you could sweep the floor with, a red body-con dress that looks like it was sprayed on.
‘Hiya!’ she practically sings, slipping into the chair with a flip of her hair. Her eyes flick straight to Lockie. ‘Well, hello!’
‘Hi,’ he replies with a cheeky smile.
‘So I’m Mel, and my brand is, like: a sexy nightmare in red lipstick and high heels.’
‘Sounds more like a dream come true,’ Lockie tells her with a smile.
It’s already a no from me. We’ve been there, done that – every girl who takes part in the show these days thinks that they can become the main character by being a nightmare contestant. Of course, Lockie writes down yes almost instantly.
‘So, tell us why you want to be on the show,’ I prompt her.
She giggles, leaning forward so far I’m surprised she doesn’t topple out of her seat… or her dress.
‘Honestly? I just know I’d smash it,’ she says confidently. ‘I’ve got the looks, the banter, and like…’ She winks at Lockie. ‘I’ll just do, like, whatever it takes. I’m great entertainment.’
‘You read the disclaimer, right?’ he says. ‘You’re aware that anything goes – anything can be filmed, anytime?’
‘Oh, deffo,’ she says, waving a hand like it’s nothing. ‘Anything goes is my motto. You’d be amazed what I’ll do… Film me anywhere. Film me on the toilet, if you need to. Some people like that.’
Lockie laughs and jots down a note that I can’t quite see.
‘Well, we stop short of filming you on the toilet,’ he tells her. ‘But the contract does say that the island is being filmed constantly, day and night, and all footage is released for TV. So, as long as you’re good with that.’
‘Hundo-P,’ she replies.
Hundo-P…!
‘Well, Mel, I think you’d be fantastic,’ Lockie tells her.
‘Squeeee,’ is the excitable sound she makes back at him.
When she finally totters out, leaving a cloud of perfume and a trail of body glitter in her wake, I turn to him.
‘Really?’ I say in disbelief. ‘That’s your idea of fantastic?’
‘She’s fun. She’s confident. She’s not afraid to play the game,’ he replies.
‘She kept telling you that she’d do anything to be on the show,’ I reply. ‘She told us that we could film her on the toilet – that’s desperation. She can’t actually want us to broadcast her on the toilet…’
‘First of all, we wouldn’t do that, the majority of people wouldn’t want to see that,’ he replies, in a way that suggests that, if more people did want to see it, he’d be all over it. ‘And anyway, desperation makes great TV.’
The assistant ushers in the next contestant before I can reply, a tall bloke in a jumper and jeans. Not jacked, but handsome in an unassuming, quiet way. He sits down without fuss, resting his hands on his lap like he’s here for a job interview.
‘Hi,’ he says. ‘I’m Jon. Thanks for having me.’
Points already for politeness.
‘Thanks for coming,’ I say warmly. ‘So, why do you want to take part?’
