I press my lips together. ‘Not really, no.’
She looks up at the ceiling and groans loudly. ‘Bloody cameras. I hate thinking about makeup at the best of times. I never wear it to work so I don’t have to worry about it going wonky.’
‘I imagine there’s a lot more at stake what with the sliced-open person in front of you. Do you want some help?’
She goes to hug me again but springs back. ‘Sorry, I’ve got sweat dripping off me. I should fix that first.’
‘It’s probably some of mine, honestly.’
‘That’s friendship.’
I follow Whit to her room and wait while she showers. She’s in and out quickly, covering her hair so it doesn’t get wet. Once she’s dressed, she sits down on the bed and I take off the remains of her old makeup for her with cotton pads. It reminds me of teenage sleepovers. There’s nothing quite like the wealth of touch between teenage besties, but this feels close.
Eventually Whit takes over because I only just about know how to do my own makeup well enough, but I play assistant by handing her products as she requests them, like I’m assisting her in surgery.
The shaking seems to have stopped by the time she attempts mascara. ‘Do you think they gave the men some kind ofpriority? Like, they said it had to be mutual, but do you think that’s actually true? Like onMarried at First Sightwhen only one person wants to go home, and they have to stay another week.’
Relieved to be out of range of the cameras, I lower my voice and say, ‘The production team will be manipulating us for the best television. We have to remember that.’
It strikes me then that I don’t actually know any of the job titles of the production team that rush around us, only their names. For all I know, Louise isn’t an assistant or a runner; she could be orchestrating the whole story. Sure, it could be unethical, but this is reality television. When has that stopped them before?
‘Whit, they’ve sent me on a date with Malachi and I didn’t pick him, and I doubt he picked me either.’
‘A much better forced choice,’ she concedes.
‘Yeah, but that’s probably because they’re trying to stir up some kind of drama between us.’
Whit gives me a look of horror. ‘Those twats.’
‘Twats, definitely. But I’m glad you like him.’
‘He makes me feel like I’ve got love shooting out my arse,’ she says dreamily.
‘That sounds painful.’
‘It’s lovely, I promise,’ she says with a laugh. ‘I guess this messing round with our dates is the whole ‘and whatever the production team deem necessary’ part of the contract we signed.’
‘You shouldn’t have to see Jackson again,’ I say decisively. ‘What’s your handler’s name?’
‘Hellie.’
‘We should go talk to her to make sure you’re not sent on any more dates with him, and be clear that this is about your safety. They have to be careful with mental health and contestant care, so they’ll take you seriously.’
I hope, at least.
It’s not like reality television has a particularly stellar record with contestant care, be it on or off camera, or after the shows.
They seemed quite thorough when we signed up as we had psychological evaluations, medicals, hell even STI tests, but then, they still made someone like Jackson part of the main cast, a man with clearly unhinged views, and gave him to Whit, a woman with a history of abuse. Unfortunately, a pattern I’ve seen before on dating shows.
When Whit’s face is restored to its former television-approved glory, she pulls me into a squeeze. ‘Thank you. Love you.’
‘Love you too.’ It comes easily, and I know it’s true. You can’t be stuck in a niche situation with a handful of people without forming sudden intense attachments, but I can see us being friends long term. Provided she doesn’t mind all the things I lied about for the show.
I walk back into the living room, which is mostly empty bar a Hannah and Bridget doing nails – I need to ask them for some pointers later.
I stride straight to the door leading to backstage, rap my knuckles on it and ask for Louise.
‘Darling!’ she cries with excitement. ‘Had a good workout?’
