I’ve nothing to worry about, that’s what I need to remind myself. It’s a dream night. The kind of night with an atmosphere that sweeps you away, dazzles you, makes you feel like you’re taking a little bit of a break from real life.
My heels feel like they thump against the polished marble as I look around the bar, letting my eyes adjust to the different lights. That or I can feel my heartbeat in my feet as well as every other part of me.
I catch sight of myself reflected in a mirror along one wall. For a second, I almost don’t recognise the woman staring back. The floor-length black slip dress clings in ways I usually shy away from, simple but unforgiving, the kind of cut that makes you either shrink or stand taller. Suddenly, I feel sort of pumped up. Nervous, but quietly confident. Do you know what? I even think my feather boa looks fab. I’m making it work. It’s draped around my shoulders, absurd and loud, nothing like my usual style, but I’m not acting like my usual self tonight.
I decide to grab a glass of champagne from the bar, whether it’s Dutch courage or a prop to make me feel more like I’ve settled in I don’t know, but it can’t hurt.
Then I notice it, that familiar Leeds accent, the voice of the former contestant who has been sending me voice notes all week begging me to let her be one of the surprise contestants we add in as the show goes on. Elle Shaw. I’ve told her no time and time again, and she’s been getting quite mean, but it is what it is. Hopefully she doesn’t recognise me with my mask on, she’ll probably just start asking again.
‘Of course I did what I had to,’ she’s saying, her tone dripping smugness. She’s got her arm hooked with another woman who is eagerly listening to her tale, her mask glittering like a disco ball under the chandeliers. A drink practically dangles from Elle’s fingers (she must have had a few already) as she tosses her head back and laughs, high and triumphant. ‘I was determined to get back on this show and now I have. A clever combination of manifesting and giving men what they want. Oh, they’re so easy to manipulate. This little card right here is my meal ticket. And all it took was a few minutes behind that curtain over there.’
‘What?’ I blurt.
Normally, I’d roll my eyes and keep walking. She’s been begging to get back on the show, DMing anyone with even a sniff of production authority, pitching herself as the saviour of the show. But she says she’s back on the show, and that card in her hand, they’re the business cards Lockie and I carry, to give out to people we meet who might be good for the show. It has the direct number to the casting line, which we only give to people we want.
And I know I didn’t give her it.
She’s waving it around like it’s her plane ticket to paradise – I suppose it is.
‘Where did you get that?’ My voice comes out sharper than I mean, slicing through the music.
‘What’s it to you?’ she asks.
I take my mask off, so she knows it’s me. As she realises it’s me her smile twists into something even more smug.
‘Cleo. Hi, babe,’ she says. ‘Turns out I didn’t need you after all.’
‘Where did you get that card?’ I ask. ‘Did you say you’re going to be on the show?’
She shrugs, lazy but satisfied. ‘Let’s just say you’re not the only one who controls casting these days,’ she replies. ‘And other people are much easier to persuade.’
Is she… is she saying what I think she’s saying? She’s got a card, from Lockie, so she can waltz into the show after, what, a fumble behind the curtain? Is she mad? Is he mad, come to think of it? Oh, God, he did say she was one of his favourites from an old series. I thought he was joking, or just… ahh, I don’t know why I expected any different from anyone involved. This is showbiz, sex is like the main currency, even now, even when you hope and pray that old practices are out, safeguarding is in.
‘Look at you, judging me,’ she replies. ‘And yet you were happy for me to have sex on your island, for ratings.’
Heat floods my cheeks. Anger, shame, humiliation all tangle together, scorching me from the inside out.
I want to march her straight over to Simon, Lockie too, and tell him this is how Lockie is making decisions, with what’s inside his boxers, not his head. But, of course, Simon has had his own issues over the years with, shall we say, taking advantage of his position. Even if he’s doing better now, you just know he’ll go to bat for golden boy.
Instead, I bite my tongue so hard it hurts, and walk away before I say something I’ll regret.
It’s not her I’m mad at, is it? It’s him. Lockie. The stupid motherfu?—
Not looking where I’m going, I crash into a man and a woman who are dancing.
‘Cleo,’ he blurts.
His dance partner wanders off.
I know it’s Lockie from his voice and his build. He knows it’s me because my mask is off.
He looks almost alarmingly good in a tux – sharp lines, sleek mask, hair slicked back to make him look the part.
A crooked smile hovers at his mouth, like he’s been waiting for me all night.
I look at him, then at his dance partner as she walks off, then back at him.
‘I actually don’t know who that was,’ he says with an awkward laugh. ‘I thought it was you, when she started dancing with me. You’ve saved me a lot of embarrassment. I can’t believe you’re wearing the feather boa, I love it. It suits you.’
