Wow, okay, are the alphas squaring up already?
‘I’ll help you,’ I tell Lockie. ‘Camilla, Tony – you can help Honey.’
‘Thanks,’ Lockie says.
‘You’re welcome,’ I reply.
‘So, Cleo, right? First time on a show like this?’ Lockie asks.
I can’t help but smile.
‘Something like that,’ I reply.
‘I think we’re the only two normal people this year,’ he says.
‘Are you saying that lot aren’t normal?’ I check.
We look over at them. Camilla, Tony and Honey make a pretty useless trio, with none of them really knowing what they’re doing, while Ozzy is the opposite, singing to himself as he starts the fire with ease.
‘Are you saying they are?’ he replies with a chuckle.
We work side by side, pretending we’ve never met, chatting like strangers. It’s weirdly… easy. Like we’re meeting for the first time all over again. He asks about my ‘type’, I volley back with banter. It feels almost natural – until I catch a camera glinting from a tree and my stomach drops, that is. Because none of this is natural really, is it? Not the flirting, not the introductions, none of it.
I glance at the others, throwing themselves into the chaos of challenges, or staying true to their reality TV personas, and my throat tightens with respect. They do this every day. They live their lives like this, putting it all out there in front of the cameras, their good sides and their not-so-good sides, shall we say. And now, for one night only, I’m supposed to do the same.
It’s just one night, that’s what I need to remind myself. Anyone can do anything for one night, right?
Tomorrow the real contestants will arrive. Tomorrow Lockie and I will be ‘voted off’, sent back to our real jobs, back on the relative safety of the yacht where we belong.
I repeat it to myself in my head like a mantra as the sun dips lower, painting the sky orange. Just one night. Just one night. Just one night.
We’ll be back on the yacht, our fifteen minutes firmly over, before we know it. Right…?
13
There’s no way I got more than an hour or two of sleep last night – what was I expecting? A good night’s rest is about as likely as free Wi-Fi for all guests. We’re not here to be comfortable, we’re here to be tortured.
I just kept closing my eyes, hoping some degree of unconsciousness would show up out of pity or boredom, but my brain was too active. Plus, for a deserted island, there are so many noises. Greenery moving, critters scurrying around, the sound of the ocean – and, of course, the cameras. Even if you manage to stop looking at them you don’t forget that they are here, because as they turn to follow us, that mechanical noise easily gives them away.
Oh, and if it isn’t the noise, it’s the physical discomfort. The sand feeling too hard, too soft, grains of it working their way into my bikini top and feeling scratchy against my skin. Knowing what I do about the show, I know there’s a chance to get beds, at some point soon, but I’m hoping that won’t matter. By the end of the day, I should be gone. Back on the yacht. Eating catered food and then sleeping in my nice real bed. Ugh, a real bed. It’s only been one night and I’m fantasising about a real bed like it’s an ex-boyfriend, the one that got away. Not that I fantasise about missing my ex, if I fantasise about anything, it’s ruining his life, but you take my point.
Even just a pillow would help. A pile of dried-up palm leaves is not a pillow, or anything even close to a pillow, and it’s not even like I can use my spare clothes to pile up like a pillow because the only clothes we have are teeny-tiny bikinis and barely there swimsuits. I could take everyone’s clothing and I still wouldn’t be able to feel it under my head.
I have no idea what time it is, the show banks on it, but it has been light for a while so I’m going to call it: it’s morning.
The air is already hot and sticky, and the sun is shining bright and relentless. There’s no gentle breeze, nothing to take the edge off, just pure humidity. I can feel beads of sweat forming at the back of my neck before I’ve even sat up, like I’m slowly beginning to melt. The urge to get in the sea is overwhelming – but then again, I remember how warm the water is here, so I doubt it would do much. The only sure-fire way I know to cool off is the waterfall over the lagoon – it’s man-made, not that you’d know, and the clean water that flows is what contestants (and me now) use to shower. I’ve seen it in the editing studio, and on TV, but I’ve never actually been to it in all the years I’ve been working on the show. It’s going to be weird, seeing it in real life, like visiting the Eiffel Tower or the Golden Gate Bridge for the first time.
I roll over and see Lockie.
Of course he’s managed to sleep – and he’s still flat out, on his back, starfishing on the sand. I watch his chest rise and fall as he breathes, in and out – it’s almost relaxing, trying to match his breathing. Ironic, really, when usually he causes me nothing but stress. It’s weird, we’ve barely spoken about anything apart from work since the masquerade ball. Just small talk here and there – like we’ve just met. In a way it’s helping, we’re not acting like people who know each other, there’s an awkwardness between us.
He even snores attractively, if you can believe it. A kind of soft, rumbly sound that would be soothing in a different context, like if you were sleeping next to him in bed, not melting into the sand beneath you, trapped on a reality TV show with cameras filming your every move.
I am hyper-aware of the cameras again, Lord knows how many are on me right now. Watching me watch him. Shit. That’ll look fantastic in the edit, won’t it? Maybe they’ll add a slow zoom and some romantic music, making it look like I’m perving over him when really I’m wondering how much sand I could throw at him before it would disturb his pleasant slumber.
Yep, definitely time to get up, to be normal and boring and secure my ticket out of here.
Walking down to the beach, I can see that Ozzy is already moving around by the firepit. He’s shirtless – of course he is, all of the men will be shirtless for the duration of the show but, in balance, his trunks cover more skin than my bikini.
