13. 13
The convertible carried me up the gravel driveway and came to a stop in front of the villa. Two Steadicam operators were stationed on either side of the front door, ready and waiting to film my grand entrance.
Trying to keep my shoulders back and legs together, as to not accidentally flash the entire United Kingdom, I scooted across the edge of the car and hopped off.
My eyes darted between the cameramen, waiting for any kind of instruction to be called out. I had been expecting at least a producer off camera directing the shoot, but as I continued to stand there, I was only met with silence and the sound of the car idling behind me.
Realizing it was all on me, I took a step forward.
Walking in heels over gravel was not an experience I particularly enjoyed, but knowing the cameras were rolling gave me a sort of laser focus on my steps, and I fixated on simply getting myself across the driveway.
Zeroing in on the door ahead, I headed toward it in what I hoped was a graceful stride. I could sense the cameras on either side of me, tracking my every move. I let out a tiny exhale of relief when I finally made it to the front door, pulled it open and walked through.
I was immediately struck by the view. The entryway opened directly into a massive sitting room. Floor-to-ceiling windows covered the wall at the back of the room, showcasing an expansive view of the villa’s backyard and the sea beyond.
The entire house was either made of white marble or covered in a variety of white fabrics, making the blue of the distant sea water all the more vibrant.
Suddenly, a voice that seemed to come from both sides of me as well as from above, spoke out. I almost jumped out of my skin; it was so startling.
“That was great, Poppy. If you could just walk back outside and take the steps up again, we’ll get you from the front angle,” the female voice instructed.
I was so thrown off by the voice sounding out from seemingly nowhere that my body went on autopilot, and my feet carried me back outside. The cameramen repositioned themselves in the open doorway, ready to film me walking up the stairs and into the house head-on.
For the second time, I crossed the gravel driveway, traipsed up the front steps, and walked through the entryway. At some point between the first and second takes of my entrance, adrenaline had kicked in, and I was feeling pretty solid. I could barely even tell my feet were throbbing in pain.
The same voice as before sounded again, and when I looked around for the source, I discovered there were two speakers mounted on the ceiling above the entryway. That must be how production communicated with the cast without intruding on set.
“Good take, Poppy. We’ll move on to your interior entrance. Cameras are going to reset. If you could walk straight ahead to the couches and take a seat, that’d be grand.”
The cameramen repositioned themselves on either side of me.
“Action, Poppy,” the voice called out. It didn’t sound like Cecilia, so it must have been another producer in the Hut, watching the live camera feed.
It was fascinating that someone could remotely direct the shoot.
The production-obsessed side of my brain wished I could be there to witness it.
I’d take the cramped, chaotic energy of the production house over the pristine villa any day.
Shaking off my career daydream, I set my shoulders back, stepped forward through the entryway, down two short steps into the sitting room, and to one of the white leather couches.
I perched on the edge of the couch, crossed my legs, and tried to maintain my best posture.
My eyes darted around the space, seeing it yet not really registering anything; I was too focused on what to do next.
I had followed the producer’s instructions, so now what?
No one called “Cut,” and the cameras were still focused on me.
Moments ticked by, and I remained seated, trying to simultaneously maintain good posture and appear totally at ease. I had a feeling this would read on camera as a weird stiffness I would regret should I ever watch the show back.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the cameras pointed down. The two operators gave me a thumbs up before heading back outside, closing the doors behind them.
The voice in the ceiling didn’t speak out again, so I assumed that my entrance was done, and they had moved on to the next contestant.
Deflating back against the couch, I let out a breath. I made it. I had no idea what was going to happen next, but I could celebrate the simple fact that I had made it.
As my heart rate calmed and I felt myself coming back into my body, I looked around in curiosity, this time actually taking in the room around me.
It was instantly recognizable from previous seasons of the show, and I was rather awe-struck sitting there. I had been on countless sets over the course of my career, but the villa felt markedly different. To watch something on TV first and then see it in real life was new to me.
Continuing my visual perusal, I began to clock the hidden cameras.
There seemed to be one tucked up in every corner.
I assumed there were even more placed just out of sight to make the setup appear less invasive.
They had probably been recording my entrance along with the handheld cameras.
In fact, I would wager they were never not recording.
I ignored the rolling wave of panic I felt over being watched. Better get used to it.
On the table in front of me was a large ice bucket with two bottles of champagne, accompanied by five plastic flutes.
A bit of bubbly seemed like a great idea as I waited for whatever was supposed to happen next.
Unsure if I was allowed to open it, I called out to the ether that was the house. “Can I have a glass?”
There was no response back, and I immediately flushed with embarrassment. Did I really think I could communicate with production like that? They were probably getting a good laugh at me shouting into an empty house about alcohol.
Moments later, after I had given up hope that I’d get a reply, the voice in the speakers rang out, “Yes, just half a glass.”
“Thank you!” I called out. It felt silly, talking to a house. I knew technically that I was communicating with a producer sitting in the Hut, but still.
I was taking the first sip of my champagne when the doors to the villa were thrown open.
Standing just beyond the threshold was a girl with bright red hair wearing a black dress just as short and tight as mine.
Her smile was bright as she walked through the doors, and her eyes darted around to take everything in.
“Oh my God, hi!” she squealed as her gaze landed on me.
She rushed across the entryway and headed my way. I was immediately impressed by how someone could move so quickly in four-inch heels.
She threw her arms open wide and wrapped them around me, pulling me into her. I was immediately caught off guard and, considering we had about a five-inch height difference, almost teetered over and onto the couch.
Before I could get my bearings, she was pulling away and grabbing onto my hands, unknowingly steadying me on my feet.
“I’m Chiara!” she said, squeezing my hands in hers.
Her enthusiasm was infectious, and I found myself mirroring her wide smile.
“I’m Poppy!”
“Oh! So you’re the American!”
The surprise at her words must have been written all over my face because Chiara lowered her voice and said, “I heard rumors from the crew there was a contestant from the US. To be honest, I was hoping it would be a bloke that would take me away to the States with him,” she said, winking at me.
Before I could reply, the speaker voice announced, “Chiara, back outside please. We’re going to shoot you walking in again.”
Chiara gave me an eyebrow wiggle before setting back in motion. Dropping my hands, she turned and strutted outside.
I watched as she repeated her entry again, exactly as I had.
Once she had satisfied whichever producer was calling the shots, the villa doors were closed, and she strode back over to me. Going straight for the champagne, she poured herself a glass, took a large gulp, and then plopped down on the couch.
“So, Poppy, tell me everything!” she said.
I turned and opened my mouth to give her my basics, but before I could get a word out, I was interrupted by the door being thrown open again.
This time, a petite brunette stood in the entryway. She paused for a moment before walking in farther, and I had the distinct feeling she had just posed for the cameras.
The new contestant flipped her hair around as she sashayed into the room, using the marble floor as her own catwalk.
Chiara and I got up from the couch and moved to greet her. As we introduced ourselves, she smiled and said, “Ella. Pleasure to meet you both.”
Her accent had a crispness to it that screamed, “I’m more refined than you.”
Before we could say anything more, she turned and walked back out of the villa, ready to shoot her entrance from another angle without even being told to.
Chiara and I continued sipping on our champagne as Ella did three additional takes. She didn’t even ask for the extra set-ups, she simply looked into the camera and said, “I’m going again,” before walking back to her mark. The girl knew what she wanted, I’d give her that.
When she was done, she sauntered over to the couch. As she took in both Chiara and me while pouring her own glass of champagne, hesitance flooded through me.
There was something about Ella that had all my instincts screaming at me to proceed with caution. I tried to shake it off, immediately feeling bad for making a snap judgment about her. It was no better than what she was obviously doing to me.
Chiara was chatting away, and I tried to focus back on what she was saying when the doors opened again.
A tall, thin girl with shiny black hair hanging down her back walked in.