Chapter 13
Peter
Another week went by, in a blur of production people talking right through me, making me wear things I had no choice in and once again placing me at a table with plated food that we were told not to touch.
Today was the second luncheon party, where we were supposed to sit around and look like we were enjoying ourselves, dressed up to the nines for no reason…
apart from showing off the sponsored rags we were all forced to wear.
The dry food on the plate didn’t look that good to be honest, worse than last week’s offerings, and I was sitting here like an idiot, with Anne on my left and someone called Caspar on my right, one of the new people I assumed.
The people living here seemed to be as interchangeable as our sponsored clothing, and I had completely lost track.
All I was managing to do was to put one foot in front of the other. Breathe. Smile.
Oliver was further up on the other side of the table, and I struggled to see him from where I was placed, behind some elaborate table decoration designed to house extra cameras and microphones whilst looking like it wasn’t at all out of place.
We’d not…mentioned it again. The cuddling.
Instead I tried to be more tactile with him.
Just squeezing his arm on occasion. Giving him more reassurance.
A little bit of affection. I told myself he needed it.
That it was important to have some physical touch, especially in an environment as stressful as this.
He still didn’t sleep much. I didn’t either because the tight schedule, the constant pressure to perform, combined with the lack of sleep and the environment here was starting to affect me. I was constantly exhausted, and it showed.
“When did you arrive?” I asked weakly, trying to make conversation whilst hoping I’d picked up the right glass. The one I was allowed to drink out of.
“We were on standby from day one,” this Caspar said, fiddling with the napkin from the table.
“Cause like, production was convinced some more of you were gonna walk right out and would need to be replaced. Turns out nobody did this week, so they were gonna send us home, but then we kicked up a stink and that Kirsten woman had the bright idea of sending us in anyway and just finding a place to sleep. Like, breaking up couples and diving into their beds. Total mutiny or whatever it’s called.
When are they going to do the partner swapping?
They said the audience was to decide? You’re still with Oliver? He’s hot.”
I only took in about half of that, putting the glass full of coloured liquid back on the table, and instead picking up the water in the plastic cup. I hated this. Hated the noise, and the bright lights and the camera panning across the table like it was looking for its next victim.
“Did you read the script? I’m supposed to flirt with you,” Anne whispered. “I just don’t know if I have the strength.” She looked as pale as I felt. “I didn’t think things would turn out like this.”
I nodded, as in a trance. I wanted to say something comforting, but instead nothing came out of my mouth. Just air. Small puffs of it.
And someone at the end of the table was shouting, someone else standing up, waving their arms around as Diane laughed into her hands somewhere to my right.
I recognised her laugh now. Like the screech of Wren’s voice and the way Ben shouted out words, and now this Caspar was whining out things in my ear.
“The drama, eh,” he said, looking like an excited child. “That Wren is hot. Shame she likes chicks.”
“She does,” I said, like I was confirming it.
Oh God. What was I doing here? I tried to look for Oliver, to find something in this chaos that I could fixate on.
I hoped he was okay. There was still shouting somewhere, and I didn’t like it.
He didn’t like it. It made him nervous, and I had no idea why, because I actually didn’t know anyone here and we were all idiots and this?
Everything seemed insane. And I was starting to wonder what I’d been thinking, staying on board this sinking ship for as long as I had.
Sharing a small bed with a man I barely knew.
Talking to these people in scripted sentences.
Trying to breathe and function when everything felt like it was monitored and where we were constantly berated by people whose names I didn’t even know.
None of the production staff had ever introduced themselves.
The camerapeople were mostly faceless and exchangeable.
The make-up people talked over my head. I might as well not exist.
Hence, here I was, scanning the room. People smiling and laughing. Some looked apathetic. Others just sat there, arms crossed over chests. Someone was gesticulating wildly at the edge of my vision. I couldn’t hear what anyone was saying, though; my mind suddenly clouded over.
“Peter.”
I had no idea who was speaking to me, but now I had the camera in my face, with the attached producer pointing at me, like she was trying to prompt me when I had no idea what I was supposed to say.
“Can you look surprised for me? Just give me a reaction, that’s all I need. Anne, can you grab hold of Peter’s arm and act like you’re in shock? Great, just like that. Do it again.”
I’d lost control here and smiled awkwardly, my mouth moving on its own accord. I had no voice here. Not me. Not anymore.
“Have you seen Oliver?” I croaked out, grabbing hold of Anne right back. “I think I need to just…check on him.”
I didn’t need to do anything. I was supposed to just sit here and smile like a puppet. I couldn’t do that. Not anymore.
“Don’t move. Stay just like that,” the producer demanded, gesturing wildly. “Keep talking. Talk. Just talk.”
“You okay?” Anne blurted out, with a strained smile.
Was I okay? No, absolutely not. I wasn’t okay. I was lost and bewildered. I was lonely and confused, and to be honest?
I was just sitting here like a sack of potatoes. And suddenly I couldn’t make sense of anything. Nothing at all. Why the hell was I here anyway?
My eyebrows seemed to knit into a permanent frown, something I had done a lot lately. The headache was creeping in again. I didn’t drink enough water. Oliver was right about that, having told me off about it earlier. Too much tea, he’d said. Not enough water.
Oliver.
There was so much Oliver was right about.
It was like that cloud lifted. My mind seemingly clear, almost violently jerking to life, remembering that I was supposed to talk. Say words. One after the other.
“My wife,” I started, then stopped myself. What was I doing? Apparently this, as madness engulfed me. “My wife used to host the most fabulous dinner parties.”
“Really?” Anne looked exactly as taken aback as I was, spilling reckless words like that.
What was I doing? But my eyes were watery and I was just sad.
Sad and overwhelmed. “She was a great hostess, and such a good cook. We used to sit down and plan out these elaborate menus and look up recipes together. Have friends round, late into the night. Just sit and talk. Sometimes we played board games, and sometimes we just laughed. It’s all just memories now, though.
But they are good memories. Really good ones. ”
“Oh, Peter,” Anne said helplessly. At least she looked genuine, well, genuinely concerned.
“She was amazing. Just such… It’s difficult, this.
Having to move on. I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing here, like this.
When she’s not here…” My head was a mess.
I was a mess, and this? All this? “She was the rock. I just clung on to her. Wherever she went, whatever she did, I just… I stayed home with the kids because that’s what I did.
And I never ever imagined there would be a time when…
All this? Nothing makes sense here. I can’t… I really… I can’t.”
I was crying, and I had no idea why. Why my body was reacting the way it did, when I’d managed perfectly well for the past years.
I never broke down at work. Never sat around the house moping.
I was just a man. I’d lost my wife. She’d died and I’d lived; the world had still turned around me and the boys.
Yet here I was, sat at a wobbly table with fake wine, talking bullshit when I should have known better.
Known not to let this get to me. This…this complete mockery of humanity.
Where I was expected to just, do what? Bend over backwards for these people and do whatever I was told?
“I’m no good on my own, but I’m better alone than like this.
I did what I was supposed to do for Mary, but this?
This is not me. Mary always said I was stronger than her, but I wasn’t.
I’ve done so much in my life, done all the things.
I just wanted a few more years. I wanted to grow old with her by my side. I wanted us to travel…”
“Peter, it’s fine.” Anne was nervously patting my arm.
“But it’s not, is it? I have no idea why I thought this would be a good idea because I don’t… I can’t… I can’t. I don’t want this. I don’t want any of this. I haven’t even…”
“I know,” she whispered. “I know, Peter. This is not quite what we expected, and believe me, I wanted something completely different to come out of this. It’s only been a few weeks though, and we’re still in this experience together. We don’t even know each other yet?”
“What’s the point?” I was suddenly waving my hands in the air.
“Well, to meet someone, innit?” I hadn’t even realised that Caspar was still there.
“Enough,” I said quietly, trying to lift myself up, my hands on the table. It wobbled precariously. Just like everything else in my life. “I’m leaving.”
“You can’t just get up. We’re supposed to stay seated until they say cut.”
“Anne, I wish you all the best,” I mumbled, trying to stand up as she tugged at my arm, looking around the room. Her hair swishing around her face, the camera still in my face.
There was still a microphone slung around my neck, and I ripped it off, standing there with a wire hanging from my fingers.
What had I been thinking? I just wanted out. I wanted my phone back so I could ring my boys. I wanted a decent cup of tea in a mug. I wanted my bloody slippers and my scrubs, and for heaven’s sake. I wanted something familiar. Anything but this.
“Come on.” Oliver. Oh, thank God. Or maybe not.
“I’m leaving,” I said, hoping it came out with conviction, and the hand rubbing my face still had wires attached and oh God. Oh God.
Tears. Why on earth was I crying?
He said nothing, this Oliver. His hand grabbed my arm, and he gently led me away as the voices around me grew agitated.
I just concentrated on him, walking ahead of me, his hand still around my wrist. The navy colour of his suit jacket. The crisp shirt he was wearing. That dark hair on his head that fell gently over the nape of his neck.
Someone from a completely different world, with his whole life ahead of him. All that optimism. Youth. Ambition. Everything I no longer had.
“I’m pathetic,” I whispered.
“No,” he said back, pushing the door open, ignoring the shouting behind us. The loud voices. Laughter coming from somewhere as another camera got shoved in my face.
“Stop!” Oliver said sternly, waving his arm around.
I just followed. One foot in front of the other.
“Oh for fuck’s sake!” he groaned, pushing the door to number four open. Our…room. Which wasn’t even a room, more like a cupboard. A holding place. Still, I walked through the door, and Oliver shut it behind us, hitting the lens off the camera. The bang of wood hitting metal. Agitated voices.
“Peter! Peter!” Loud knocking on the door, as the door handle was pushed down. Oliver immediately pushed it back shut with a determined shove of his foot.
“The bathroom,” he said quietly.
“We’re coming in, Oliver.” The door opened. He turned around and kicked the door shut with an angry growl.
“Do not come in. This is not on. Absolutely not on.”
I was shaking, uncontrollably by now, and the bathroom? A small modern entrapment that didn’t make me feel any calmer. Stark white light. And I didn’t trust there weren’t any cameras around here either, and of course I still had the wired mic in my grip.
I was tired. I was sick of this. All of this.
“Give me the mic,” he demanded, Oliver. This Oliver. This small beacon of kindness.
Perhaps I was being unfair. Maybe I was the one in the wrong here.
“I think I was rather unkind to Anne,” I blurted out.
“You don’t owe anyone anything,” he said back, his voice low and stern. “And this is fucked up. On every level.”
And there he went again, my mouth letting out a yelp of something, a panic deep in my stomach as he left me standing there in the bathroom. Walked back out into the room, opened the door and chucked the mics out into the awaiting crowd. Then he slammed the door shut and returned to me.
“Perhaps the balcony would be better, but it’s raining.”
“There’s no lock on the door,” I said.
Insanity. Oh God. Here were tears. More of them.
“You’ve had enough. I don’t blame you. If I have to deal with Bisexual Bonehead Ben giving me sexual advances one more time, I am going to scream. Chloe-Catherine has been asked to leave after making unwanted sexual advances towards Trudi. What the hell, Peter?”
I slumped down on the edge of the bathtub. Sat there shaking, no longer in control of myself. Who the fuck was Trudi?
“I can’t,” I said.
“Get in the bathtub,” he said sternly. “I’m getting in too, and there’s a shower curtain here. This is insane. The only place we can have a breather, without a bloody camera in our faces.”
“It’s what we signed up for,” I admitted, like I knew what I was talking about.
“No, it’s not,” he replied.
Then he got in the bathtub, crossing his legs over mine. Two men, fully clothed, in an empty bath. The rustle of a plastic curtain. A door with no lock. At least they hadn’t followed us in here. Those people out there. All those people.
“Peter,” he said sternly. “Now talk to me. Because this has gone on long enough.”