‘Right,’ I practically breathe back at him.
‘And that’s how it’s done,’ Lockie tells him, dropping me, stepping back, switching off whatever he just switched on. Like it was nothing.
‘Okay, well, that’s too good, if you want voting out first,’ Dan points out. ‘So just… something in the middle, yeah?’
‘Yeah, okay, great,’ I say, composing myself.
‘One more thing, just a formality,’ Dan says, pulling contracts out from nowhere. ‘You need to sign these.’
I take it from him and eyeball it suspiciously.
‘It’s the same ones as the real contestants sign,’ I tell Lockie. ‘Anything goes, all footage can be used, no exceptions.’
‘Well, you will be real contestants,’ Dan reminds us. ‘It wouldn’t be fair, if not.’
I don’t know how happy I feel about signing it. It basically absolves the production company of all responsibility, and also allows them to film whatever they want, so whether a contestant falls off a cliff or has a nervous breakdown. It’s all for the telly.
‘Yeah, okay,’ Lockie says. ‘Pass me a pen – the show must go on.’
His last few words hit me. The show must go on.
Lockie signs his without hesitation. I hover for a moment, pen in hand, knowing he’s right, I just wish it didn’t have to be this way.
But then I sign.
The sooner this is over, the better. I’ve got my bikini on, I’m working on my smile – inside I’m screaming though.
This is going to be hard – especially if Lockie keeps being so annoyingly sexy.
12
The way the island smells is ingrained in my memory. Stepping off the little boat, onto the jetty, the salty sea is what hits me first, then the leaves, and finally that sun cream smell you only seem to experience naturally on holiday. From a bottle, this fragrance would cost a fortune.
It really is a beautiful place. A picture-perfect scene pulled right off a postcard. White sand, turquoise water, palm trees gently swaying. It’s like looking at pure paradise, but this paradise looks back. Even before I spot the cameras hidden in the tree branches, I feel them. Watching. There’s nowhere to breathe without an audience.
There are cameras almost everywhere. I forget how many there are exactly but every accessible inch of the island is covered. As we walk past one – one of the security-style ones – I hear the sound of it panning, being remotely operated, capturing footage of us. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get used to that noise, the sound of the cameras stalking us, watching our every move. Capturing the audio feels even more intrusive. All contestants – including me and Lockie now – have to wear a wristband. It’s a very clever piece of tech. It runs off solar power, so it never needs charging, and it contains GPS so that contestants can always be monitored – that way, we can’t lose anyone (not that we ever have). But the main reason we use them is because they contain a little microphone, that connects to receivers all around the island, so that we can capture every sound. And for ‘safety’ once the wristbands go on they can’t come off, not without the key. I feel so claustrophobic, with it on my wrist. One of the show’s main features is that it has a live feed so, from the moment the show starts, that’s it, game face on.
Lockie and I exchange silent glances as we walk, I’m nervous whereas he looks more excited. And then they separate us. Lockie disappears one way with a handler, me the other. My stomach twists. I know it’s for the entrance, but suddenly I hate the idea of not having him by my side.
‘All right, Cleo,’ Will, the handler, says as he reaches out to untwist my bikini strap. The straps are so impossibly thin, like spaghetti, and I appear to lack the elegance to keep them in place. ‘You’re up in thirty,’ he continues. ‘Just remember: smile, breathe, walk out confident. They’re going to love you.’
I don’t want them to love me – I need them to vote me off the island, ASAP… and yet, I don’t know, part of me does want people to like me. We all want to be liked, right?
I adjust my bikini as I walk. I feel like it’s riding up my butt – or maybe it’s supposed to be there – and I feel little more than a sneeze away from a nip slip, but it’s too late to do anything about it now. Hilariously, the bikinis seemed like they would cover more than the swimsuits – all of them had those cut-outs that look great if your body is perfect, but otherwise could not possibly contain other lumps and bumps. Mine is a simple black two-piece. Modest by reality TV standards – which only makes me feel even more self-conscious, because I know everyone else will be in slivers of neon fabric, gracing their perfectly toned, well-oiled bodies.
And then I notice Arabella – the host – waiting to greet me. Arabella obviously knows that Lockie and I are part of the crew, filling in, but she’s a professional so she doesn’t let on.
God, she’s stunning. She’s wearing a slinky bronze dress – there are those cut-outs again – and her hair in her trademark perfect waves that somehow defy the humidity.
‘And you must be Cleo!’ she announces, her smile brighter than the sun above us. ‘Come and join us.’
My legs feel like jelly as I step forward. The sand moves beneath my feet, making me feel unsteady. And here they are, the contestants that Lockie and I spent so long picking out.
Honey. Camilla. Ozzy. Tony. Faces I’ve looked at more than my own reflection recently because we’ve been so busy trying to get everything perfect.
Now they’re staring at me like I’m one of them. This is so surreal.
Honey twirls a lock of platinum-blonde hair between her fingers, batting her lashes, her head tipped curiously. She’s made a name for herself as everyone’s favourite airhead since she was onRoomies, a reality show where people have to live in an apartment together.
