Chapter 2
Oliver
“We are so thrilled to have you on board!” the lady squealed, looking totally overexcited and strangely enthusiastic, whilst not for a minute fooling anyone, let alone me.
I’d been watching her through the glass wall of her office, yawning and inspecting her elaborate nails, no doubt making me wait as she twiddled her thumbs.
Or perhaps she’d just been contemplating my fate.
Reality TV star. Another notch to add to my already impressive CV. Something that no doubt would impress my colleagues, the ones who usually looked down on me with disdain. Fuck it.
At twenty-nine, I was the youngest account manager at Delaware Financial, and also the most successful one, who pulled in the majority of our clients and racked up the profit, pocketing those coveted extra bonuses with ease.
My job wasn’t anything special; it was just basic numbers, graphs and scores.
Convincing people that I knew better than they did.
It was child’s play, but that didn’t matter much here.
I was ready for a change of scenery, a different pace for a while, because to be honest? I was bored. Super bored.
Take last night. I’d gone out, cruised around the usual places for a drink, getting the vibe, scoring some fun things and then?
Oh yes. I’d got myself dragged to some party where I’d found myself on all fours servicing a nice hottie with a thick dick, who’d not only praised my excellent cock-sucking skills but also had a friend who willingly fucked me under his watchful eye.
A good night, all in all. Not that I was telling this…
– what was her name? Tiya? Taya? Tonya? – anything about that.
“Just need to go over the basics one more time to finalise your schedule. The official photoshoot will be next week, ready to launch your new social media. After that, you’ll be needed on set on Saturday, when we film the first arrival, the pre-show interviews and the idents…”
“Tanya,” I interrupted, sitting myself up straighter in the chair.
“Angela,” she said sternly. “I’ve introduced myself twice.”
“Angela, my apologies,” I said flatly. “Any chance of some coffee? I’ve hung around a while, and it’s way past lunch.”
“Certainly.” She smiled sweetly. “There’s a machine in the lobby downstairs, for later. After. We only have a certain timeframe to finish this, and I have another meeting to attend to.”
This truly wasn’t glamorous, not that I’d expected a red carpet or anything, but I was the contracted talent, after all.
Also? I knew full well I was behaving like an entitled dick.
Came with the territory, unfortunately. I was used to having people to run my errands.
Bring me hot drinks. Sort out my needs and demands with a submissive nod of their head.
I wasn’t particularly liked at work; I knew that. I didn’t mind. I wasn’t there to make friends.
“You and the other resources…” she continued, her voice full of smarm.
“Resources?”
“Talent, acquisitions, whatever – I’m only using the terms from the contract here, as I said, you will be contracted full time, twenty-four seven, until the time the show wraps.
Reshoots should be expected and are included in your fees.
As is the reunion show, which will be shot at a later date.
Also, there can only be one winning couple. ”
“We still get paid our fees though, even if we don’t win?
” I stuck in, just to get that part straight.
I had read the contract. There was a nice hefty fee for my time, as well as the exposure which could, and could was the potent word here, lead to brand endorsements and all kinds of icing on the cake. Angela’s words, not mine.
“You are bound by your contract, the NDAs, your twenty-four-seven availability and of course, it goes without saying, any behaviour that goes against the company’s ethos, values and disciplines, as per the said contract, will result in immediate dismissal from the production.”
“I understand that.” I might have rolled my eyes. I was not a child, and legal contracts were my bread and butter. I had read, signed and understood.
“Your preferences have been noted,” she said, flicking through the contract in front of her.
“Gay. Will be coupled up with a man. Someone fit, with the same view on this,” I parroted out.
“Which is?” She ripped out a sheet. Made a scribble in the margins, clearly not listening to me.
“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 have read the 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 of becoming 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.
“For you? Always. Same account?”
“On my tab.”
“Have a good one.”
A pouch landed in the damp palm of my hand, to match the sweat forming at the back of my collar. It was always like this. Anticipation mixed with a heavy dose of added anxiety.
This wasn’t good for me. I should know better, my heart racing almost as if it already knew what was coming.
I knocked my drink back and took myself off to the men’s room.
Discreet. Perhaps not so much as I lined up alongside the mirror, a neat row of customers already stood there, not even bothering to hide their activities.
A line of white on top of my hand. I wasn’t fussy.
Not at all. I snorted it up in one go, feeling my nostrils burn.
Oh God.
Everything felt numb, the dust trickling down inside of me, like my throat was no longer my own. The burning sensation moved downwards as I closed my eyes.
It was all good. And I deserved it. Every little speck of glitter that formed in my line of vision.