‘Dance-related injury?’ Oliver offered. The contestants had been forced to jump up and down for hours the night before, in some imitation of a club inhabited by only ten individuals. They had been assured this looked like a fun time on camera.
Holly grimaced. ‘Maybe my brain didn’t enjoy bouncing around my skull? Does this happen when you do ballet?’
Oliver found his smile turning more genuine. ‘Only with Wagner.’ He placed a cup of still-steeping tea in front of Zoë and gave Holly a questioning look.
‘You should have green tea instead, Holls,’ Stella said, approaching from the villa. The lights had come on in the bedroom, and the other contestants were trailing out. ‘It’s amazing for headaches; I recommend it to all my wellness clients.’
‘You’re a terrible Englishwoman,’ Jack called over, heading towards the pool.
Stella shrugged. ‘I consider myself a citizen of the world.’
Maeve nodded earnestly, leaning over the counter to snag the kettle from Oliver. ‘When I travel for work, I’m always surprised by how everyone is fundamentally the same.’
Zoë stared between the two of them for a moment before turning to Oliver. ‘Where are you from? I don’t think you mentioned.’
‘London,’ Oliver said quickly, hoping she wouldn’t pry further.
As the girls chatted about their recent holidays, Oliver stared at his tea in silence. He felt wildly out of his depth – he’d only travelled outside the UK once in his life, when he’d flown to New York to audition for Manhattan Ballet the month before. He had known when he’d agreed to come on the show that he was nothing like the ideal contestant, and he kept being reminded that he had little in common with these people. After all, they didn’t need the prize money.
‘Hey,’ interrupted a voice from behind him. He turned to find a familiar face: Paige, the producer who had sent him that fateful DM.
‘Hi,’ Oliver said, not meeting her eye. The producers terrified him. They had got him to reveal things during the audition process that he refused to talk about with even his closest friends.
She gestured for him to move closer, away from the cameraman capturing footage of the contestants chatting around the kitchen counter, and he took a hesitant step towards her. ‘Can I pull you for an interview? You didn’t do one last night.’
‘Ah,’ he said evasively. ‘I didn’t? I must’ve forgotten.’
She gave him a knowing look. ‘Or were you avoiding it?’
He flashed her his most charming smile, the one that had always won over his instructors. ‘Oh, you’re good. Have you thought about pursuing detective work?’ She put her hands on her hips, and he added in a more serious tone, ‘To be honest, it makes me a little nervous, talking at the camera.’
Paige’s eyebrows drew together. ‘It’s not a performance, and you’re not being graded.’
He disagreed, but nodded along anyway.
‘The others just have a chat with me. Can you do that?’
‘Probably,’ he hedged.
She placed a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘I’m on your side here. We want the same things, and we can help each other.’
‘Oh? You’re also looking for your soulmate?’
She dropped her hand, looking at him intently. ‘I think you understand what I mean. If you’re constantly on alert, performing, the audience is going to notice. There is no one the public turns on faster than someone looking for fame or fortune, and I don’t want that to happen to you, since I know you’re here for the right reasons.’
Was he imagining it, or had she put slight emphasis onfortune? He hesitated a moment more before following her towards the villa.
She led him to the small interview room deemed the Love Shack, and Oliver sank onto the stool in front of the camera. The red light was already on, signalling that he was being recorded. He tried to steady his breathing – each pre-show interview had left him exhausted.
‘So,’ Paige said, tying her shoulder-length curls into a bun and settling next to the camera. ‘How are you and Zoë getting along?’
‘Oh, fine,’ Oliver said, trying to train his eyes on the camera lens, though they kept sliding back to Paige’s face. ‘I mean, she seems nice.’
‘Wrong answer,’ Paige said, and the camera light blinked off. ‘You can’t make everyone like you,’ she continued in a kinder tone. ‘You’re a performer, and I understand where you’re coming from. Your audience, the people watching ballet, they’ve come to see perfection. Right?’
He nodded. ‘Right.’ It was what he loved about ballet: there was a structure to it, an immediate knowledge if the movement had been done correctly or not. Perfect form was clearly defined for him.
‘I trust you to know your audience, so please trust me to know mine. It’s our job, isn’t it? And I’mverygood at my job.’
