“Same age, ready to settle down, no children and absolutely no grey hairs. Gives me the ick.”
“Perfect.” She smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile.
“And I have watched similar shows. I understand the expectations. You want drama? I can surely give you some, but I don’t expect to be messed around.”
“We are a highly experienced production company. You will have access to a team of councillors and mental health coordinators at all times. There will be security and staff in-house. All just a step away.”
If that was supposed to calm anyone? It didn’t. Security? We’d need security? What kind of oddballs were they signing up here?
“I have booked you in with the stylist tomorrow, and she will fit you with the wardrobe you will be expected to wear throughout this experience. A haircut and a few rounds with our prep team, and we will have you ready for this in time.”
“A prep team?” I huffed. She stared at me sternly.
“You havereadthe contract?”
I had.
And yes. Okay. We would be given media training and product placement commitments and…
“Great. Here is your checklist for day one, and the form to fill in for your new social media handles. Our team will manage all that for you from now on, but going forward, you need to be aware of your presence in public and how you come across to potential viewers. We’ll have the rest covered in the daily call sheets. Nothing to worry about. You have paused and hidden any former accounts, haven’t you? I have a note here to ensure your Instagram account is deleted. Nobody wants old photos to come back and haunt them, do they?”
I sighed. And yes, everything was wiped. Not that I had much out there. No social media. Nothing apart from my LinkedIn and that weird-ass photo on the company website.
I had thought this through, over and over again. Not that I had told anyone of my plans, or my swift change of career. I was even lying to myself there, having hedged my bets by taking a career break from my finance position. I’d even told my boss some white lies about the possibility ofbecoming a digital nomad and finding a different lifestyle to comfort my stomach ulcers.
The single, small detail there strictly rooted in reality? I wasn’t well. My head was a mess, my chest full of palpitations. My body showed every sign of stress-related ailments, and a recent run of unknowingly acquired STDs had temporarily given me some pause for thought.
A man my age needed to look after certain aspects of his life. The fact that most of my colleagues were settling down, getting married and, God forbid, succumbing to parenthood? Yes. I was reeling with perceived expectations here. When a man was still single in his almost-thirties, seemingly behaving like a teenager and spending his weekends high on substances that no doubt had added to his heart being stupid and the constant paranoia?
I wasn’t well, and I knew it. The drugs had to go. The random hookups, the parties, the clubbing…those alluring darkrooms.
Things had to change, and my phone flashing up another reminder to rebook my recently missed company medical? I wasn’t looking forward to it. Wouldn’t do it. None of it.
Now, I can hear you asking yourself, why in heaven’s name would I sign up for some goddamn reality show? Well.
Cue laughter, yet this wasn’t any sort of comedy. I was lazy, and desperate. This, in my befuddled brain, was an easy way out. I would have a team of matchmakers at my disposal to find me someone just as desperate as me. Well off, in a decent profession, with an urge to have a newfound sense of calm, knowing you were tied to another human being who would no doubt fall in love with you, and as you skipped into the sunset? There would even be a half-decent pay check and a new…reality. And, I had auditioned and jumped through hoops like everyone else, and somehow passed the test. I had a new part to play, which would end up with me having a partner. I wasn’t one to lose, and I played to win. My expectations were…
I wasn’t sure of what my expectations were there, to be honest, but hey. The team were actual licensed professionals; I had been interviewed for hours about my likes and dislikes, even my sexual preferences and my limits within the bedroom. There was no way I wouldn’t be matched up with someone who could handle me and who could be exactly what I needed. A safe haven. Limitless shags. Someone who would hopefully find me attractive.
Not that I wasn’t. I was slim and of average height. A bit of dark scruff on my skin to match the thick mop of dark brown on my head. My skincare routine was top notch, indulging in the occasional spray tan as standard, and I went for regular Botox. Well-groomed wasn’t even the start of it, and to fly my flag even higher? I had no problems getting laid. A man like me? I had the pick of the bunch, something I’d always exploited…as long as I had the help of some chemical substances to make me brave.
Sober me was a mess. That was a hard truth to admit to, hence I didn’t. And again, I had to admit to myself that this was truly ridiculous and weird and stupid to the max in every possible way. I wasn’t handsome. And I wasn’t anyone’s catch.
I left without picking up that coffee, far earlier than I’d expected, because wasn’t there more to discuss? Just turn up? Did I need to pack? I could feel the familiar panic rising in my chest, my heartbeats drumming far too fast as I ran out the door, hoping to be able to breathe. Calm the fuck down. Function like a normal human being. I was normal. I was great.
Fuck.
Shoving all those anxieties to the side, I did what I always did when I got like this. The alluring buzzing in my stomach. Just a quick pick-me-up. A celebratory little party. Perhaps even a… Gosh, I had promised myself not to do this again, but then? I was free, wasn’t I? Friday afternoon and all that? It would be rude not to…
The taxi I waved down took me to my location of choice, a bustling venue, full already despite it being early afternoon. A glitterati of young city professionals lined the sleek bar, shiny shoes and high heels, where I fitted in perfectly, tapping my card on the reader held out to me. I was a regular. Open tab. Fill it up.
A sleek cocktail in my hand, sheer seconds later –did I tell you the service was good here? –I turned around and surveyed the room. Dimmed-out windows, yet the sparkle from the lights almost seemed too bright.
“Oliver,” someone whispered in my ear.
Oh yes. Right on time.
“Usual?” I said to nobody in particular.
