Chapter 7
Peter
Ihad to stop questioning everything, and most of all? I had to stop playing along with this complete farce of a… I had to stop. Right now.
The cups of tea handed through the door were poured in vegetable-based paper cups, or at least that’s what the bright logo screamed.
They were also lukewarm. I still drank it, big gulps of caffeine goodness that still did nothing to make me function better.
I was just a limp blob back on the floor next to this guy who had ripped off his bow-tie and loosened the buttons on his dress shirt.
A shirt and tie. Seriously. Whoever was running this freak show needed to take a seat and calm down. Several seats, actually.
“Take the jacket off,” I suggested, as he whipped his head around and glared at me.
“Not like that, mate.” I smiled. “Just a…what did you call me? Granddad here. I have no intention of being anything but just… Did I just mess up again? I need to mind my words here before I get my very own headline in the papers.”
“Shows you’re old. This show is all web-based. There’s an interactive site and everything. Social media. Viewer votes.”
“What does that even mean? People send us messages, or what?”
He shrugged, awkwardly crawling out of the jacket. He was a nice-looking guy, just…tired. If I was completely honest here? He looked absolutely wrecked.
“Wanna sit on the sofa? I don’t think my back can take more of this sitting on the floor,” I tried. Please. I can’t do this.
“Not sure I want to get up. I’m hoping this corner here is a blind spot for those cameras.”
“You’ve got the mic around your neck still. We both do.”
“Contract…and all that.”
“Yes. I have no idea what I was thinking.”
“Well, you must have known what you were getting yourself into.”
He smiled, the man. Good. At least he was easy to talk to, still clinging on to his paper cup. He’d chewed the edges, like a teenager. Nervous disposition then. A bit like my Ed.
I don’t know why, but in a way, I was a little calmer now.
“You want to hear something ridiculous?” I smiled. Couldn’t help it, gently spurred on by the enthusiastic way he nodded.
“I’m kind of…relieved to have been paired up with you. I mean, the pressure is definitely off. I don’t think I was ready for this, not at all. And now…I mean. I don’t have to woo you or try to make you like me…”
I fell silent. Again.
“You need to control that mouth.” He didn’t sound angry. Just amused. “You’ve already made yourself a good ten memes, and what has it been? Half an hour of being on this show?”
“I have, haven’t I? I’m not cut out for this. I’m a dentist for heaven’s sake!” He was absolutely right in that observation. I could see it all, playing out on the web, and not in a good way.
“A dentist?”
“Paediatric orthodontist,” I stuttered out. “I fit kids with braces. Fix their teeth. Do surgeries once a week. That kind of thing.”
“You give people great smiles.” He grinned. “Not being flippant. I had my teeth fixed a few years ago. My mouth wasn’t great.”
“Looks good to me?”
“Seriously. Don’t flirt with me, Granddad. It’s not funny.”
“Don’t be ageist, kid.”
We both laughed. It felt good, like a small breath of relief after what had been a crazy day. Horrid. So many mistakes already. I shook my head in unease as he gifted me a small smile. The boy was sweet.
“I’m not doing myself any favours here.”
“Nope.” He smiled. “So, what on earth did you ask for that got you coupled up with me? I can’t quite see you asking for a washed-up twink?”
“Is that what you call yourself?”
“Thought you would have asked for a nice lady. Or some young bird. Midlife crisis and all that.”
He wasn’t being mean, just making conversation. So was I as I shook my head.
“Nah, I just asked for someone nice. Someone I could talk to. Who would need me and enjoy my company, just simple things. I didn’t ask for much. If I’d known what I know now?”
“Perhaps you should have been more specific.”
“Yes. I’ve kind of…realised that.”
“Instead you got all this mess. What a let-down.”
“You’re all right. What did you ask for?”
“Young, fit, rich and no kids.”
I had to laugh because even though it wasn’t funny? It kind of…was.
“I also asked for no grey hair. That part was non-negotiable.”
“Oh God, Oliver. No wonder you had a panic attack.”
“Don’t mock me.”
“Not mocking you. Just…getting to know you.”
“Well, what else do you want to know?”
“What do you do for a living…when you’re not passing out on reality shows?”
“You’re mocking me.”
I grimaced. He laughed. Such an easy laugh. I wish I was more like him. I told him that as well, which made him blush.
“I’m an account manager for a financial firm.”
“Very upmarket.”
“Not for long once this goes on TV.”
“You did tell them, though?”
Ah. Crap. The look on his face held a million lies.
“You probably should have.”
“I know, but by the time I’d agreed to this gig, I was already in a bit of a tangle at the office. I don’t think they’ll have me back anyway.”
“Why not?”
He gestured wildly to all four corners of the room. Like I didn’t understand myself. I did. And okay.
“We need to make a deal here. Figure out how we cut conversations short when we skirt into private territory. We probably also need a place where we can go to talk privately when we need a break from…this. And maybe how to signal that we’ve had enough and need an out.”
“What?”
“I mean, we’re supposed to be…what? Partners here? So we need to make a plan.”
“You’d do that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, I could let you know when I need an out and you’d drag me off?”
“Yeah. And the same for me. I think…”
“We’ll work that out. Also? The bathroom is a safe spot…apparently.”
“So we’ll have to lock ourselves in the toilet to be able to talk freely?”
We both grinned. Which was, of course, when the production guy with the hat burst through the door. Knocking? Apparently not here. Someone else wearing a headset stared at us blankly, holding the door open.
“Guys, just to advise you, hardly anything you’ve talked about will make the cut.
We need better conversation. If you’ve read the brief for today, we have given you a list of questions we ask you to bring up in discussion, to ensure we get the footage we’re after.
You haven’t even touched on the required brand endorsements yet, as well as the correct terminology that you’re required to use. ”
Okay? And what?
“None of this will make it on air if it’s not following the script. You can’t risk losing airtime.”
Script? We had a script?
“We have a script,” Oliver said calmly. I liked it so much better when he was more relaxed. I also liked it when we laughed, because that made me calm too.
“I don’t give a monkey’s about airtime,” I muttered.
“That’s a seriously dated phrase.” Oliver came crawling over to me, nudging my arm with a wad of papers. Script. Ah yes. And okay.
“And you are needed in hair and make-up ready for the communal brief with Gina. If you could both be in Room F in three minutes.”
I was starting to seriously dislike this production guy. Not even a please or a thank you? Apparently not.
“Shall we go then? Raise some hell? Give them something to talk about?” I shook my head for what seemed like the umpteenth time today, trying to look through the paperwork he’d handed me.
“Script indeed. Where’s that in here?” I flicked the paperwork back over.
“I’ll glance over it whilst they brush my hair. ”
“All that grey.”
“It’s silver. Very distinguished.”
“Old.” Oliver. The brat. Where he’d initially looked frail and perhaps weak? He clearly wasn’t, that glint in his eye betraying a whole other part of him.
He was tall. A little taller than me. Dark-brown curls that fell messily around his pale face. Deep eyes. Cheekbones. I needed to eat better and sleep better. Nice teeth…when he smiled. Right now he didn’t, back to looking terrified and nervous.
“Do we have to hold hands?” I teased, hoping he’d appreciate my attempts at lifting the mood, trying to combat the grimace he once again threw my way. I was starting to appreciate him, quirks and all. The facial expressions. The laughter. The way he carelessly shrugged.
No more panic attacks. I’d make sure of that.
Oh God. Look at me already? Back in dad mode with a stranger that was definitely no kid. And I was not his father.
“Wear the T.O.S. purple space jumper,” he said instead, with a cheeky grin on his face. “It’s on page one. All clothing will be specified in the daily brief, and brand names slash style names must be mentioned at least twice daily to ensure collaboration contracts are adhered to.”
He grabbed the wad of paperwork from my chest, pointing at the first paragraph. I shook my head.
“The…what did you call it? Space jumper? It looks very…colourful. Will that do?”
“On trend. Available direct from the T.O.S website in four funky colours.”
He winked. The boy winked. And what did I do? I stood there and grinned.
“We’ll be fine,” he said.
And the strange thing was? I actually believed him.
The entrance sequences into the common room took a little over two hours to perfect, where we were required to enter the room to a rousing applause, then sit down. Then do it all over again as we got things wrong and they changed the way we were seated.
Ridiculous, if you asked me, but it gave us the chance to briefly meet everyone else.
“I’m Chloe-Catherine.” A soft handshake from a woman who looked so plastic I wasn’t sure if she was real or just a…prop. “It’s double-barrelled. I use both names. It’s a brand.”
“Okay.” I tried to smile, shaking her manicured fingernails. “I’m Peter.”
“I know, and if you don’t mind me being forward, I need a good sugar-daddy. I’ll be all over you when I have the chance, just saying. I know you’re already famous. How many Instagram followers do you have? Have you checked?”
“I handed in my phone…” A statement as she tutted, right in my face.
“Before, silly. Our handles have been live for over a week. It’s the basics?”