I uncapped the marker again.B = making huge mistake?I wrote.
I could just imagine what the network would say to that. ‘An ambiguous ending?’ Greg McDonagh – the executive VP of unscripted programming, referred to exclusively on our set as Fucking Greg – would roar. ‘That’s not what the heartland want!’
Just the thought of Fucking Greg yelling about the heartland audience set off my chronic eye-twitch. Lily and I had been agitating for a far greater level of racially and culturally diverse casting for years now, but every time we pitched it, Fucking Greg started yelling about the heartland and calling us the woke police.
Although…
I glanced over at the wall, where we’d put up headshots of our potential Romeos for Season Eleven. Lily and I had deliberately selected three men of colour: Charlie Vu, a cancer scientist; Dylan Jayasinghe Mellor, an Olympic gold medallist; and Chris Gregory, a TV gardener with a cult following. They were all great candidates, but the odds of Fucking Greg throwing our briefing packet back across the desk and telling us we needed to play to the heartland and find a ‘boy next door’ – that is, cast someone white – were high, no matter how we tried to sell it.
But what if we could absolutely, positively, one hundred per cent promise him an un-ambiguous dopamine hit of an ending?
My storytelling galaxy brain started to kick into gear.
Lily and I had purposely sabotaged a season before. It had paid off.
What if we did it again?
There was no way we could get a fairytale ending out of this Brett/CJ/Mary-Ellen fiasco, not if Brett picked CJ. So what if we steered into the skid? What if we let this ending feel awkward and wrong and weird, and used it as leverage to do a more diversely cast season, with a promise of the world’s most satisfying payoff? What if—
‘Murray?’
I turned. ‘I’ve just had a—’
‘Murray.’ Lily’s face was ashen, her eyes wide and wild,Blood of My Enemiesstanding out in sharp relief against her skin. ‘Murray – Murray—’
I took two quick steps and caught her just before her knees gave way. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’
‘Jeff,’ she gasped, fingers digging into my shoulders. ‘There was an accident. It’s Jeff.’
1Murray
The fourth of my contestants left the makeshift studio we’d set up in the hotel conference room. I ticked off the nameCecilia James, closed my eyes, and allowed myself a quick, wistful dream about the hotel pillows.
All the cast and crew on Season Eleven ofMarry Me, Juliethad just done two weeks of mandatory hotel quarantine before on-set filming started tonight. I’d been hoping to use the time to sleep. It had been a foolish, naïve hope – there was always another fire to put out when you were running a show, especially when you were running it on your own – but there was still something to be said about doing your job from a luxurious hotel bed.
‘Who’s next, Murray?’ Saurav, the camera operator, asked me.
I opened my eyes. The right one immediately started twitching. I pressed two fingers into the muscle beside it. ‘The ringer. The supervillain. The one we don’t know anything about.’
‘How did that even happen?’ Indigo the gaffer adjusted one of the lights. ‘I thought you had this whole season mapped out. I’s dotted. T’s crossed. The works.’
‘Fucking Greg. As usual.’
It hadn’t been easy, talking Fucking Greg into letting me do this season, but I’d done it. I’d presented him with proposal after proposal and report after report on the audience reaction to Brett not picking Mary-Ellen, and eventually he’d cracked. ‘All right, fine,’ he’d growled. ‘You can have your woke season –ifyou promise me the fairytale. And it better rate its tits off, O’Connell, or you’re done.’
I should have expected something like this. Signing off on a million documents on our season plans and then deciding at the last minute to throw in some top-of-his-head wildcard was classic Greg.
But I hadn’t expected it. Maybe because I was on my own now, doing all the work that Lily and I used to do together. Maybe because I didn’t think it could get any harder than the pandemic restrictions were already making it. Or maybe it was just because I was an idiot – but I hadn’t seen it coming at all.
Greg hadn’t even bothered to call me. He’d done it in an email, which I’d received forty-five minutes after entering hotel quarantine.O’Connell, I’ve found you the perfect villain for the latest MMJ. A real spicy meatball.
I’d put my head between my knees to take some deep breaths before replying.Perhaps for next season? We’re all set for S11. All our cast and crew are now in quarantine, so we can’t change any of our plans.
Already sorted,Greg sent back.Spicy meatball’s been in lockdown since this morning.
I can’t just add another contestant into the mix,I replied.Pandemic restrictions mean there are strict limits on how many people we can take into the bubble. We already had to get government permits to take this many.
Cut one of the other girls,he wrote.You’re keeping the spicy meatball. She’ll be ratings gold. Everyone will love to hate her. Make sure she stays until at least episode eight.
