5. 5
The days following my call with Harriet were a blur of physical and emotional preparation.
Blair took it upon herself to be my guide on the journey into the world of reality television.
This meant, first and foremost, what she was calling an “emergency glow up.”
I tried to tell her they had cast me based on my already existing way of looking, but she was hearing none of it.
“You’re stunning, obviously, but this will just be a little boost before your face is broadcast on every television screen in the United Kingdom.”
The reminder of what was ahead of me had any objection I might have had dying a quick death, and soon I was at the mercy of the team of beauticians Blair traipsed into the flat.
I was waxed, manicured, exfoliated, and plucked within an inch of my life until I was a sparkling, shinier version of myself.
The second part of my preparation was “TV boot camp”, which primarily meant that we watched as much Bella Amore as humanly possible.
The show, which would air in the UK every night for six weeks straight, averaged forty episodes a season. With six seasons consisting of one-hour episodes, that was 240 hours of television ready for the viewing public’s consumption.
I managed to get through four seasons—a total of 160 episodes.
It was on in the apartment at all times. We never turned it off. Sometimes I would even have one season on the living room television while another played on my laptop.
We watched and watched and watched, and by the end my brain was mush and my vision blurry, but at least I knew what I was getting myself into.
I also got it. I saw the appeal. To be quite honest, I was hooked after the first episode.
The premise of the show was simple: five single guys and five single girls entered an Italian villa, chose someone of the opposite sex to “match” with, and then tried to date both in that pairing and out of it, all while lounging around a pool from day to night.
There were twists and turns, with new “Bellas”—what Blair told me all the cast members were called—brought in at random to shake things up.
Every few days there was a Matching Ceremony, in which the contestants would again choose who they wanted to be partnered with.
If you were not part of a match at the end of one of those, you were sent home.
No one was safe from elimination or heartbreak, even if you happened to be in love with your partner.
At the end of each season, the public voted for their favorite pair, and a winner was declared during a live televised finale, broadcast to millions of people watching at home.
The winning twosome got to walk away with a cash prize and, as Blair filled me in, the unspoken promise of a myriad of lucrative brand deals once they arrived back home.
The whole thing was cheesy and cringey, and most of the time I couldn’t understand what anyone was saying as the accents were so thick and the British slang so foreign to me.
But as I spent my remaining days of freedom holed up in the apartment, binge watching the very show I would soon be on, I began to understand why it was such a hit.
I still believed the entire thing was ridiculous, but I was surprised to find that at its core was an element of joy. It was sweet and funny, and for a program that required its participants to wear minimal clothing, it was actually quite heartwarming most of the time.
My participation in the show still felt like an abstract concept, and I knew I would never feel one hundred percent ready to be an actual cast member. It was so foreign to me, so out of the realm of anything I had ever imagined for myself, that it all didn’t quite feel real.
But at least with hours of screen time under my belt and a fresh set of highlights, I had some semblance of understanding what I was getting myself into.
***
The day before I was set to get on a plane to Italy, I had to film an introduction interview that would air during the show’s season premiere.
Arriving at the studio, which was really just a nondescript gray building in a row of similar-looking gray buildings in the middle of London, my hired car rolled into a covered parking lot and, before I could even crane my neck to look around, the car door was pulled opened from the outside.
I stilled, pressing my palms against the leather seat, trying to ground myself in the present. As soon as I got out of the car, I knew it would be like strapping myself to the front of a high-speed train. No matter what was being made, producing a show was like that: a nonstop sprint to the finish.
I exhaled a slow breath, trying to dispel the anxious nausea that had taken up residence in my gut, and got out of the car.
Standing next to the door, waiting to greet me, was a young guy about my age, with bright red hair and pale, freckled skin.
“Hi! I’m Harry!”
Harry was short—maybe four inches smaller than my 5’10” frame—with an eagerness in his expression that I found endearing. I knew, right then, without him having to say anything else, that I liked him.
“I’m Poppy. It’s great to meet you!” My voice sounded unnaturally loud as it echoed across the garage.
Was I yelling or was it just the buzz of anxiety amplifying my senses?
“I’m so excited to meet you, Poppy! I’ll be your producer during your time in the villa, so I’ll be with you through this whole journey. It’s going to be so much fun!”
I nodded and smiled at him, trying to mask how overwhelmed I felt. Nervous energy swirled through my veins and for a moment I wondered if I was going to pass out.
No, I told myself, willing my mind to lock in. I am going to be okay.
I had handled harder obstacles in the past. Compared to the needy actors and temperamental directors I was used to working with, a sweet producer like Harry would be a cake walk.
I cleared my throat and pulled back my shoulders. If I acted like everything was fine, maybe I could manifest it into being so.
“What’s on the docket for today, Harry?” I asked.
Harry started toward the studio doors as he launched into the day’s schedule. I followed him and let his chatter wash over me, pretending for the moment that I was just another production assistant arriving for their first day of work.
This is just like that, I told myself. It’s just a job, like any other job before it.
I might have never been in front of a camera before, but I had certainly been behind one. Sure, I’d have to don a bikini and heels soon, but other than that the mechanics of making the show were familiar.
I could do this.
Treat it like any other job and get through the day.
How hard could it be?