Chapter 10
Oliver
“Oliver, tell me about yourself. If young Oliver could see you know, what would he be thinking?”
I should have been used to this by now, having settled into the daily routine of being grilled to death.
The questions were intrusive, yet impressively on point.
Whoever was producing this script knew their stuff, which should perhaps have put me at ease.
It didn’t because… Well. The truth was? This had been nothing like what I had planned.
I liked to plan, and I liked my schedule to run exactly like my own personal script. Work was like that, and this?
It wasn’t work. It was excruciatingly hellish, on every level. I’d been here, in this room in this very seat, twice a day for what felt like…weeks. Maybe I was losing track of time, of daylight and nighttime and waking hours and times when I should have been eating…
“I think young Oliver wouldn’t have been watching reality TV, Gina.”
Her gentle sigh said it all. I wasn’t playing ball, and she knew it. Too many questions. The same ones being regurgitated in different robes. Disguised as friendly banter when they were nothing of the sort.
“Who are you? Who is the real Oliver?” She leant in, doing that thing I was noticing she often did. Looking all concerned and motherly. Like my boss sometimes did when she was about to pull shit on me. Tell me off for offending some client. Pushing people too far.
The real me? I smiled weakly. What was I supposed to say?
I’m out of place, and I can’t cope and to be honest?
I got up at three in the morning last night and had a full-blown panic attack in the bathroom, and all I want is to get some good quality blow up my nose so I can have a break. The real me? The real, real me?
“I think I’m someone who doesn’t always say the right thing. Sometimes I’m way ahead of myself in my head, and ahead of the conversation, meaning the wrong responses might slip out, at the wrong time. It’s something I am well aware of.”
“Oliver,” Gina said, with a deep sigh, moving her seat closer to me.
“You need to try to work with me here. That kind of thing won’t cut it.
You’ve read the script. You know what kind of answers we are after.
Nobody is going to vote for a guy who’s…
ahead of the conversation. It makes you sound full of yourself, and if I may say so? Rather cocky.”
“Well, what do you want me to say? I’m looking for a hookup with a big dick that will get me followers on bloody Instagram?”
“Oliver.” Gina was rolling her eyes. “You may be a little shit in private, but sharing that attitude with the viewers won’t do you any favours. Not here, not now, not ever.”
“Gina,” I replied.
“You’re such hard work,” she muttered. “And you need to cut that attitude right out.” She dismissively waved her hand to the production person.
“The real me? What was it you asked earlier? What would I say to the younger Oliver? Well, perhaps I would have told him to pipe down and not cause trouble. Maybe I would have told him to get the hell out of some of the situations he got himself into. But I didn’t because me?
Who am I? Perhaps I’m just the idiot who thinks this will lead to fame and fortune. Doesn’t everyone here?”
She stared at me. I stared back.
I shouldn’t open my mouth. And I should probably take my own advice.
“Cut that whole bit. Just cut.” Gina was waving at someone with a clipboard, frustration written all over her face.
“What do you want me to say?”
She sighed and wrung her arms. Stretched them out in front of her.
“I want you to be honest. To level with me here.”
“I am. You want me to quote from my latest work appraisal?”
“Not really.”
“Sometimes brilliant, sometimes overconfident and sometimes deeply unprofessional. Often lacks empathy for the client.”
I grinned evilly. It was the truth. I’d omitted the rest of that quote. Things I was not going to share.
“I think,” Gina started. “I think you’re just as frightened as everyone else in here.
I think you’re scared of actually finding love.
There is someone in this building who has been determined to be the perfect match for you, but if you keep deflecting all those things we as humans feel?
If you can’t talk about who you are and show other people exactly that? How are you going to connect?”
“I think you’ll find that the show will do all that for me.” I leant back. I was being a dick. Right back to being sixteen and stupid again. I didn’t understand why.
“You’re here to do the work,” she said sternly. “Work with the team, work with me and mostly work with your fellow contestants. That will yield the result you came here for, nothing else.”
“And what result will that be? That some old guy with grey hair will magically fall in love with me?”
I was being mean. And for a second there, I felt…unease. Like I was being mean to the wrong person.
“Are you falling in love?” she asked, like it was a legitimate question.
“After what? It’s been what, a week?” I said, looking straight at her. She knew, she knew exactly how ridiculous this was. Her face told a million stories, though. She was just as exhausted as I was. Sick and tired of this absolute farce.
“I know Peter is exactly the opposite of what you asked for. Your shopping list of traits for your ideal partner was everything Peter’s not. But he’s…” She stopped and turned to the cameramen. “Can you two leave us for a sec? Cut the cameras. Just a few minutes.”
I didn’t like this. I didn’t think I liked any of it. I’d expected something completely different here, and laying myself bare with nothing to say? I had nothing to say.
“I’m not interested. Me as a person is nothing I want to talk about. I haven’t had an interesting life, nor have I got some…what was it you said earlier? A fun back story?”
I really hated this. And I had nobody here to rescue me. No Peter to drag me away.
“Are you okay?” she asked softly, this Gina.
It was just her and me. And I didn’t know what was worse, that I was sweating and shaking or that she was just staring at me. No cameras. Well. I didn’t trust that part.
“Yeah,” I said. I wasn’t.
“There are people you can talk to, no need to even mention it. The on-set mental health team is here twenty-four seven. Just go see them. That is what they are here for.”
“I’m fine,” I said sternly. I was. I could cope. I just… I was shivering, everywhere. I needed a cigarette. I needed a hit. I needed something that wasn’t this.
“Then what the fuck, Oliver?”
She said that in a voice that sounded far too calm.
I said nothing. And the sweat dripping from my forehead was embarrassing.
“I…” What was I supposed to say? Admit to all my shortcomings? “Peter’s a nice guy. No complaints. I just want to get all this over and done with and go home.”
“Not what we want to hear.” Gina sighed.
“It’s what I can offer,” I replied.
“I think you like him,” she said quietly. “I can tell.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you right back.” She glared. “And stop sabotaging everything you have going for yourself here. Just be bloody decent and nice and answer the questions with a smile. Then we can just get on with this whole project and get out of here. Can you do that for me? Please?”
I laughed out loud because she sounded just as desperate as I was.
“We’re a week into filming,” I said. “I can’t do this.”
“None of us can,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But this is work, and this is what pays the bills. So please. Just make my life easier. And Oliver?”
“Yes?”
“You deserve this. You deserve what could come out of this. It could actually, for once, be something good. I’m not saying that this show isn’t a complete disaster. I’m not making any promises here, but bloody hell, mate.”
“What?”
“Go see the mental health team. Go get some help. Sort those shivers in your hands out, whatever is causing them. Then go hug that man of yours. Because I think you deserve something to make you smile. Don’t you think so?”
“I don’t deserve shit,” I spat out. “And he’s not my man.”
Who the hell was I? And what had I become?
“You deserve to feel happy and safe and… You deserve someone to love you. Someone who you love back. So can we aim for that? Start small? Start with someone who actually likes you? And who you perhaps like back? Can we start with that conversation?”
I was breathing far too fast. My stupid designer shirt far too tight around my neck. It was by Tarrant Brothers, and I was supposed to mention that, and I had no idea why I could even remember that when I could barely remember my name here.
“What?” I said.
I needed out. Now. Fuck.
“Take a break. Go see the mental health team right now, will you? Please?”
“Fuck off, Gina,” I said brusquely.
Then I fled.
I tried to make it to our room, but there was equipment stacked in front of the door, so I had to do a swift detour to the kitchen, where I just stood, staring into the fridge.
“You all right, mate?” Ben. Ben the bonehead bisexual buffoon. Too much hair. A half-arsed beard. Smelly, weird arsehole in my book. I wanted to blurt that out as well, but I had some self-preservation. Apparently.
And now his hand was softly moving down my back. I shifted away.
“No,” I said sternly.
“Oh, you know you want it. I haven’t had any action in here, and you’re up for it. I can tell. I mean, you’re stuck in there with a straight guy, and you’re fucking hot, mate.”
“No,” I groaned, my voice low. I was freezing up, and I had only one way to move, which was further into the fridge as Ben manoeuvred in behind me. His groin against my arse. And…fuck.
I froze up.
“Don’t,” I hissed.
“Come to my room, ’tis empty. I’ll give you what you need.”
“I need…” I elbowed him in the chest. Somewhere. He was big and strong, but I must have caught him by surprise as I managed to loop myself out from under his arm, moving far too fast, almost taking Xanthe out with my panicked escape.