“Guys, just to advise you, hardly anything you’ve talked about will make the cut. We need better conversation. If you’ve read the brief for today, we have given you a list of questions we ask you to bring up in discussion, to ensure we get the footage we’re after. You haven’t even touched on the required brand endorsements yet, as well as the correct terminology that you’re required to use.”
Okay? And what?
“None of this will make it on air if it’s not following the script. You can’t risk losing airtime.”
Script? We had a script?
“We have a script,” Oliver said calmly. I liked it so much better when he was more relaxed. I also liked it when we laughed, because that made me calm too.
“I don’t give a monkey’s about airtime,” I muttered.
“That’s a seriously dated phrase.” Oliver came crawling over to me, nudging my arm with a wad of papers. Script. Ah yes. And okay.
“And you are needed in hair and make-up ready for the communal brief with Gina. If you could both be in Room F in three minutes.”
I was starting to seriously dislike this production guy. Not even a please or a thank you? Apparently not.
“Shall we go then? Raise some hell? Give them something to talk about?” I shook my head for what seemed like the umpteenth time today, trying to look through the paperwork he’d handed me. “Script indeed. Where’s that in here?” I flicked the paperwork back over. “I’ll glance over it whilst they brush my hair.”
“All that grey.”
“It’s silver. Very distinguished.”
“Old.” Oliver. The brat. Where he’d initially looked frail and perhaps weak? He clearly wasn’t, that glint in his eye betraying a whole other part of him.
He was tall. A little taller than me. Dark-brown curls that fell messily around his pale face. Deep eyes. Cheekbones. I needed to eat better and sleep better. Nice teeth…when he smiled. Right now he didn’t, back to looking terrified and nervous.
“Do we have to hold hands?” I teased, hoping he’d appreciate my attempts at lifting the mood, trying to combat the grimace he once again threw my way. I was starting to appreciate him, quirks and all. The facial expressions. The laughter. The way he carelessly shrugged.
No more panic attacks. I’d make sure of that.
Oh God. Look at me already? Back in dad mode with a stranger that was definitely no kid. And I was not his father.
“Wear the T.O.S. purple space jumper,” he said instead, with a cheeky grin on his face. “It’s on page one. All clothing will be specified in the daily brief, and brand names slash style names must be mentioned at least twice daily to ensure collaboration contracts are adhered to.”
He grabbed the wad of paperwork from my chest, pointing at the first paragraph. I shook my head.
“The…what did you call it? Space jumper? It looks very…colourful. Will that do?”
“On trend. Available direct from the T.O.S website in four funky colours.”
He winked. The boy winked. And what did I do? I stood there and grinned.
“We’ll be fine,” he said.
And the strange thing was? I actually believed him.
The entrance sequences into the common room took a little over two hours to perfect, where we were required to enter the room to a rousing applause, then sit down. Then do it all over again as we got things wrong and they changed the way we were seated.
Ridiculous, if you asked me, but it gave us the chance to briefly meet everyone else.
“I’m Chloe-Catherine.” A soft handshake from a woman who looked so plastic I wasn’t sure if she was real or just a…prop. “It’s double-barrelled. I use both names. It’s a brand.”
“Okay.” I tried to smile, shaking her manicured fingernails. “I’m Peter.”
“I know, and if you don’t mind me being forward, I need a good sugar-daddy. I’ll be all over you when I have the chance, just saying. I know you’re already famous. How many Instagram followers do you have? Have you checked?”
“I handed in my phone…” A statement as she tutted, right in my face.
