Chapter 6
The office looks so different at night. Not just when it’s dark, because it’s always dark before the end of the day when it’s winter, but when it’s late enough for almost everyone to be long gone. I don’t know anyone else that’s still here apart from me and Lockie.
It’s quieter, darker, more honest somehow – and yet kind of eerie too.
It’s always so frantic during the day that at night it feels abandoned, like the zombie apocalypse came while I wasn’t paying attention – if anyone would have to work through an apocalypse, you just know it would be me.
Desks abandoned, swivel chairs sitting empty, everything casting long shadows under the few lights that are on.
Even the cleaning team have been and gone and now it’s just me and Lockie, takeaway pizza, and the entire internet to sift through.
Lockie drums his fingers on his laptop in rhythm with the buzzing fluorescent bulb above us. It’s kind of maddening. He catches me glaring at him.
‘Sorry,’ he says with a chuckle. ‘I was trying to drown out the noise from the light. I’ll turn it off.’
He pops up from his seat and flicks off the overhead light. The remaining light comes from a weak desk lamp and the glow from our screens.
‘This place is depressing at night,’ I say with a sigh.
‘Depressing?’ He looks around like I’ve just insulted his home interior. ‘It’s romantic, if anything. Eating dinner, a gentle glow – typing slurs and usernames into social media to see if any of our contestants need giving the last-minute boot.’
‘Oh, yes, so romantic,’ I say sarcastically.
He grins, as pleased with himself as always.
We’ve been at this for hours – one last-minute round of contestant vetting before Simon signs everything off tomorrow.
It’s mindless work: combing through social feeds, googling names, making sure no one has a secret OnlyFans or used any unsavoury language in an online spat back in their school days.
One of the blessings, when it comes to casting people who have already been on TV, is that usually these things come to light the first time around.
I would be surprised if we found anything, but best to make sure, we need this series to go without a hitch.
Lockie sits back next to me, the glow of his laptop uplighting his face like we’re telling ghost stories. He looks irritatingly awake, while I’m propped up on one elbow, scrolling through Instagram profiles that all blur into one parade of fake tans, Turkey teeth and gym selfies.
‘This guy,’ I say, gesturing at my screen. ‘He seems like he’s going to be trouble.’
Lockie leans forward to peek. Our heads almost touch, and I’m suddenly aware of how close together we’re sitting, and how warm the office feels. Yes, summer is finally settling in now that we’re in June, but it’s not that. There’s just this heat between us.
‘Trouble’s good,’ he says. ‘That body is made for slow-motion walk-ins. He’ll have half the cast eating out of his hand by day three.’
I frown.
‘He always seems so arrogant.’
‘Exactly. He’s perfect,’ Lockie says.
Perfectly unbearable, perhaps.
‘It’s funny, because if you were into guys, you would sound complimentary – if not slightly pervy – but because you’re not, I don’t know, you talk about him like he’s some sort of specimen,’ I explain.
‘He is!’ Lockie jokes, pretending to fan himself.
‘I’m just not sure what you see in him… or anyone,’ I reply.
‘Cleo,’ he sighs, as if explaining the obvious to a child.
‘The audience loves arrogant. They hate them, they scream at the telly about them, call up all of their friends to chat shit, but they keep watching. That’s the point.
It’s like when we were at the auditions, and we trialled talking to people separately, and I wanted that fitness model, and you wanted the soup kitchen guy. ’
‘Benny? He was great,’ I insist. ‘He volunteered, raised money for charity – he ran marathons.’
‘Benny who ran marathons was the fitness model,’ he corrects me.
‘No, he was the guy who volunteered,’ I reply. ‘He ran marathons for charity.’
‘Describe him,’ he prompts me.
‘Tall, blonde undercut, athletic, kind smile,’ I say.
‘That’s Benny,’ he replies.
‘Yeah… I know. I just said,’ I remind him.
‘No, I mean that’s my guy too, and your guy – they were the same guy,’ he tells me. ‘We must have argued about who was better for like forty minutes. It was the same person.’
I laugh.
‘So… we actually agreed on someone?’ I say.
‘Yep!’ he replies.
‘Well, for what it was worth, because we had to abandon new people in favour of your big idea to use only reality TV stars. Do you remember Elle, from a couple of seasons ago?’
‘Elle? Oh, yeah, Elle Shaw? The influencer?’ he replies. ‘I watched the show that year. She was my favourite.’
I nod. She was everyone’s favourite – everyone male anyway.
‘Yeah, well, she’s heard from her agent that we’re doing this, and she is hounding me on Insta, begging to take part,’ I tell him.
‘I’ve told her, we’re not considering ex-contestants any more, just other reality stars – we don’t want anyone to have a tactical advantage – but she won’t let it go.
She’s actually starting to get quite mean.
She says we’ll have words at the launch party – because of course Simon invites all the ex-islanders.
I’m going to have to spend the whole night avoiding her. ’
‘Well, that should be easy, given that it’s a masquerade ball,’ he replies.
‘Yeah, I heard someone had that great idea for this year – I thought it might have been you,’ I reply. ‘You seem like the kind of guy who likes to orchestrate a misunderstanding.’
We both reach for the last slice of pizza at the same time, his hand brushing mine, warm, casual, lingering just a second longer than you would expect before we pull back. It’s like we’re playing chicken – I think I’m the one to move first.
‘You can have it,’ I tell him.
‘You can, if you like,’ he replies.
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ I insist, pushing the box toward him slightly.
‘We should share it,’ he suggests.
‘It’s not a milkshake with two straws or a big plate of spaghetti,’ I reply.
Lockie laughs.
‘As into both of those things as I would be…’ he jokes. ‘Here. I’ll take the top half. Seeing as though you don’t eat your crusts.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with not eating crusts,’ I protest.
‘Do you cut them off your sandwiches too?’ he checks playfully.
‘I’ll cut your crusts off, if you don’t back off,’ I say through gritted teeth, but it’s a playful reply. I sort of like the banter, sometimes, although other times I really do want to murder him.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he replies.
I try to keep cool but my pulse betrays me, thudding louder than it should over something so silly.
We eat in silence for a minute, chewing, getting back to the task at hand, pretending we’re not flirting with the idea of flirting.
It’s Lockie who breaks the silence, of course.
‘So,’ he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Since we’re already invading the contestants’ private lives, what about ours?’
I give him a wary look.
‘Ours?’
‘Yeah, I heard a rumour today, about an office romance – the office romance, apparently.’ He smirks. ‘One of the girls was telling me how you and your ex were like the main characters of the place, the ones everyone shipped.’
The words hit like a punch to the stomach.
‘Yeah, well, it didn’t work out, because it turns out he couldn’t be trusted,’ I say flatly. ‘And I don’t want to talk about it.’
His smirk falters, softening into something else.
‘Fair enough,’ he replies.
‘I’m very anti-workplace romance now,’ I say, setting my stall out. ‘They’re a terrible idea.’
‘Not always,’ Lockie replies. ‘Statistically speaking, some of the best relationships start at work.’
‘Statistically speaking,’ I counter, ‘so do most affairs, divorces, and HR investigations.’
He grins. ‘That’s just all part of the story, right?’
‘Everything is a story with you – do you ever have a day off?’ I clap back.
‘No,’ he says plainly. ‘But I have had an office romance too, and mine didn’t work out either, so I do know where you’re coming from.’
‘Oh, right, well… I’m sorry to hear that,’ I tell him honestly. ‘What happened?’
I know it’s rich of me to ask, when I’m keeping my own secrets to myself, but I get the impression he wants to talk about it.
He hesitates, then shrugs.
‘She cheated,’ he says eventually. ‘At the Christmas party. It’s a tale as old as time.
You know what these industry parties are like – drinking games, spin the bottle, truth or dare.
Harmless enough when it’s inside the game.
But…’ He swallows. ‘I caught her kissing one of the show’s stars out in the smoking area.
She said it was no different to doing it in the game, that I was being a baby but… the trust was gone.’
I feel a pang of something in my chest.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
He shrugs again, but you can see in his eyes that, in this moment of sincerity, he’s not his usual laid-back self.
‘It is what it is.’
‘Still,’ I say, ‘once the trust is gone, it’s hard to get it back. Not just with that person. With anyone – with everyone.’
He looks me in the eye and his gaze lingers a second longer than it should: softer; more cautious, suddenly.
‘I’m doing my best,’ I say softly. ‘To go with your ideas. But it’s not easy to trust there, either.’
He sits up a little straighter.
‘Then let me make my case properly,’ he replies.
‘Look, I know it seems shallow, stacking the cast with reality TV stars, but these people, they know the game. They create chaos naturally. We probably won’t have to script it – they’re used to being good TV.
We just set the stage and let them do their thing. ’
‘And hope it doesn’t blow up in our faces?’ I reply.
‘It won’t.’
I narrow my eyes.
‘Sometimes you have to trust someone,’ he says.
‘Except… I remember on Made in Yorkshire, that house fire,’ I say. ‘One of your tricks, I assume?’
He bursts out laughing.
‘Cleo. That was a real fire,’ he tells me. ‘Nothing to do with production. Some idiot knocked over a candle.’
I’m not sure if I believe him.
It’s not fair how easy he makes it look – just existing. He sits there, confident, charming, believing in his ideas like they’re gospel. I don’t know where he finds his faith.
I want to believe in his idea too, it’s just so hard to trust him, when I don’t really trust anyone. I meant what I said – once trust breaks, it doesn’t just snap with one person. It infects everything. Every relationship, every partnership. Even this. Especially this.
I really do want to trust him. I want to believe that his chaos theory will work, that he’s not just another pretty face coasting on male privilege and bravado. But I can’t help bracing for the moment it all burns down – literally, if that house fire was anything to go by.
And all of the above is just trusting him professionally. I daren’t even think about anything else.
‘Still,’ I say, ‘if you take it too far, or it doesn’t work out – that’s it. I’m revolting.’
His lips twitch.
‘You’re not that bad,’ he replies.
I roll my eyes.
‘Not that kind of revolting.’
‘I know, I know,’ he teases, and I can’t help laughing too.
He’s funny, I do like that about him. That laugh-a-minute vibe is what keeps life light. It’s hard to frown about everything when you’re always laughing with someone, even in the darker moments.
‘I’d better put my mask back on, you actually look like you don’t hate me right now,’ he jokes.
‘You’re not all that hateable right now,’ I tell him. ‘Never mind your metaphorical mask. You’ll have a real mask on tomorrow.’
‘Ahh, yes, the masquerade, can’t wait,’ he says, pulling a bit of a face.
‘Our pre-show launch parties can get pretty wild too,’ I point out. ‘It must be a TV thing. But God knows how people will act with anonymity.’
He leans in just a little, I’m sure he does.
‘It’s a good way to let someone know how you feel,’ he points out. ‘Without… exposing yourself.’
‘Always better to do that without exposing yourself,’ I reply, deadpan.
He laughs, the sound low and warm.
‘Not like that. But then again…’ He pauses, watching me closely. ‘Sometimes your gut feeling is right. And you should just ask. I should just ask.’
‘Ask what?’
‘Dinner,’ he says. ‘After the party. You, me, somewhere that isn’t here – and a food without crusts.’
My instinct is – of course – to say no, like always.
Keep it safe. Keep the walls up. And yet he keeps asking.
Plus, he’s right. I have to trust someone at some point.
Maybe Lockie is the one – the one I should trust, that is.
I’ve been kidding myself, pretending there isn’t something here, simmering beneath every argument, every brush of hands. I could try… maybe…?
‘Okay,’ I hear myself say out loud. Somehow I feel like my lips acted before my brain had truly finished overthinking it.
Lockie smiles.
‘Great,’ he says, leaning back again. ‘It’s a date.’
It sounds like it is, and the worst part? I think I’m looking forward to it.