This wasn’t me. I couldn’t do this. I had nothing to bring to the table here. Nothing. What was I supposed to do? Go out there and make small talk with a bunch of desperate, seemingly fame-hungry strangers? Talk about the length of my dick? Discuss sexual habits…or something?
I ripped my mic off and threw it at the floor. I hoped the distortion would hit whoever was listening in on all of this. Cause a migraine. I couldn’t even smile at my lame joke.
The silence was shattered by more shouting, doors slamming and someone calling my name. I was needed. And just like that, I was being summoned to the common room on the sofa, expected to perform forced pleasantries with some people I’d never met. And here I was, willingly retrieving my mic set from the tiled bathroom floor and hanging it back around my neck. Straightening myself up.
I couldn’t even meet my own gaze in the mirror. I still did. Squirmed in unease. Then I walked back out there and allowed myself to be manhandled to wherever they wanted me. These…faceless strangers. Production people. They didn’t even wear name tags. Just blank IDs with colours and the production company logo.
“Oliver,” I said, answering another ridiculous question. “I’m with Oliver.” I sounded like a fraud. “And you are?”
Some woman who nodded knowingly. “I’m new here, just brought in. My name is Roxette. Named after that pop band, yes. I am aware.” She rolled her eyes in some kind of fake tic. Hands everywhere. “My parents were big fans.”
“Okay?” I questioned, turning to the bloke next to her, who was just staring at me. I’d never seen him either.
“Elia,” he growled out, his voice far too deep for my…fragile head. “So, you’re gay?”
“No!” I burst out.
“No?” This Roxette woman smiled. “But your partner is Oliver. A man, yes?”
“Yes,” I started, then stopped. “I’m with Oliver.”
“Good for you,” the bloke said. “I’m all about skipping the labels. And you’re happy with this Oliver? It’s nice that they have done such a good job of coupling us up. I mean, Roxette here, I asked for Scandinavian, blonde, curves and smiles. I think I hit the jackpot!” The bloke grinned as Roxette did another squirm…slash eye-roll. Followed by a blinding smile. Teeth.
I was doing it again and had to shrug myself out of it. Fake. Badly fitted and the absolutely wrong shade for her appearance.
“That’s nice,” I said weakly as production cut in, saving me from commenting on something I had no right to comment on. Perhaps I should ask to join the styling team. I would have been great at sorting these people’s teeth out. And now there was another guy with headphones adjusting my jumper. Someone else I hadn’t seen yesterday.
“Guys, we need more spice. We need confessions. How are you feeling? Peter, I need you to ask Roxette and Elia about their first meeting, and after that, can you share your experience from yesterday? How your initial shock ended with the two of you falling asleep together?”
“My what?” I squirmed.
“Hang on.” The production guy rattled off something into his headset.
“Wait,” he continued as I sat there like the fool I was.
“I’m very excited for all this.” Roxette filled in the silence. “I always wanted to do reality TV. I’ve done some extra work before, and then I did a commercial for Novello hair spray. Did you see it?”
“Novello?” the guy said. “They sponsor us?”
“YES!” Roxette shouted. “Ideal opportunity. I jumped at it.”
“Great.” He crossed his arms. I wasn’t following this. None of it.
“Here’s Oliver. Now, I need you two to lead the conversation here and ensure all of you share your first meetings, first Roxette and Elia here, then if you, Oliver, if you can start off the conversation. We need steam. We need gossip. And we need drama. Can you do that for us?”
Oliver. Sinking down on the sofa, far too close to me. Arm around my back.
I wanted to move. Move out of the way and make space, but I had nowhere to go.
“And action!”
“Sorry, I just need to do some very unnecessary public displays of affection here.” Oliver smiled, wriggling down. “Move over a bit, doll.”
“I’m the doll now?” I huffed out. I was just giving him grief. I didn’t mind his little nicknames. His vocal quirks.
“This is stupid,” he whispered, giving me a wink. “Just play along.”
“So you’re Oliver,” Elia said, leaning far too far into the conversation. Placing a hand on Oliver’s knee.
