15. 15
The next few hours were spent touring the house and getting settled in.
While the entryway and living room we shot our entrance in were all white marble and furnishings, every other bit of the house was painted and adorned in Bella Amore’s signature color: bright cherry red. It felt like some kind of Valentine’s Day acid trip walking through each room.
On the first floor, across the hall from the glam room, were two changing rooms; one for the guys and one for the girls.
We each got a small, locker-sized closet to use.
I had been told ahead of time that the show had a deal with a British fashion retailer to bring in new clothes for everyone each week.
I supposed I wouldn’t really need that much space then, so the small cubby would do.
Connecting the two changing rooms was the bathroom.
It was long and narrow, with three sinks on one side, two sinks on the other, and one shower in the corner.
One shower for ten people. I thought back to old episodes of the show and immediately understood why it was so common to use the outdoor pool shower.
The next stop on our tour was the confessional room, or as the producers, in what I was guessing was an attempt to make it seem less intimidating, called it: the Love Shack.
This was the small room in which we would each be interviewed every day and where I’d be expected to talk about my feelings.
The show would cut away to the footage during each episode, and it would serve as a sort of narration for the viewing public.
A large, round sofa chair with red couch cushions was set in the middle of the room.
Behind it, a floor-to-ceiling backdrop with a picture of a white-sand beach had been pinned to the wall, and in front of that were two large inflatable palm trees, framing either side of the chair.
A tripod with a small, handheld camera mounted on top was facing the sofa, with a folding chair next to it where a producer would sit.
Overall, the whole setup struck me as quite low budget, and I wondered why a show that was so successful had such tacky art direction.
We were walking out of the Love Shack when a producer’s voice sounded out of the ceiling’s speakers. “Bellas, you have two hours to get ready for tonight’s cocktail party. Girls, please head to the glam room and boys to your changing room. Do not leave until instructed.”
And so, it began.
The Cocktail Party was the narrative centerpiece of a Bella Amore episode.
Each and every night, the cast got dressed to the nines, walked outside to the fire pit, grabbed one of the two alcoholic drinks allowed per person, and toasted to love and eternal happiness.
It was at that point in the broadcast that the television audience knew that whatever drama was going to happen was just around the corner.
We shuffled down the hall and back toward the glam room. Everyone had their own vanity mirror and table to get ready at, all pushed together and set up like an island in the middle of the room. The other girls hurried over to theirs, clamoring to refresh for the night ahead.
I sat at my own vanity station and took a breath as I plugged in a curling iron.
I leaned back in my chair as it heated up, looking around and taking it all in.
Everything was moving quickly—production, the girls swirling around me, time itself.
So, I sat, still as I could, willing myself to relax and trying to ground myself in the moment.
I was here. I was doing it. I had made it through the day.
All I had to do now was keep moving, keep going.
I could do it.
I had to.
***
Getting ready with the girls turned out to be my favorite part of the day.
Going through the motions of girl talk and gossip and putting on makeup made me feel calm in a way I hadn’t expected.
The room was loud with chatter from the moment we entered, and it felt like being back in college and living with my best friends again.
When it was time to get dressed, a rack of clothing was wheeled into the room by a PA. Our sponsored wardrobe had arrived, and the other girls wasted no time dashing forward and grabbing at their favorites. I pulled a simple black dress off the rack.
Chiara did a double-take and snatched it out of my hands.
“You’re not wearing that, babes,” she stated as she hung it back up.
“I’m not?”
“Nope, you need something to wow the boys. You can go back to basics once you’ve cracked on with a bloke.”
“Cracked on . . . which means ‘hitting it off with someone,’” I stated, proud of myself for knowing that bit of lingo.
“Exactly!” Chiara said.
I was thankful in that moment that Blair had made me watch so many episodes of the show before arriving. I had picked up some of the odd British slang somewhere between seasons three and four.
From across the room, I could hear Ella mutter, “Teaching the American how to speak English?”
Her tone made it clear that she did not find my ignorance amusing.
Chiara rolled her eyes at Ella and turned back to the clothing rack.
From it she pulled a short, white off-the-shoulder dress with jewels stitched across the neckline.
Even on the hanger, I could tell that it would dip precariously low on my chest. I also knew it would be wildly short on me.
What would have probably hit mid-thigh on her would likely settle right under my butt.
“Wear this,” Chiara said, shoving the garment into my hands.
She was already moving on and grabbing her own dress, so I had no time to reply.
Overhead, a producer’s voice announced, “Fifteen minutes, ladies. Sound is coming in to switch out your mic packs.”
A chorus of shrieks and “I’m not ready yet!” filled the room.
Like clockwork, the same sound woman who had mic’d me earlier in the driveway entered. Looped in the crook of her elbow were five mic packs.
The mic packs.
This was yet another staple of the show.
Every contestant wore a portable mic pack on their person, all day and all night.
I had been informed by Harry that the only acceptable time not to wear my mic was if I was in the pool or shower.
Even in bed we would be expected to wear it right until falling asleep and then put it back on first thing in the morning.
The physical pack itself left much to be desired.
We had been mic’d earlier with fancy, tiny lavalier mics.
Mine had been discreetly clipped onto the neckline of my dress, and off I went with it.
I had almost forgotten it was on me; it was so subtle.
These new ones, the ones that the public loved the Bellas wearing—according again to Harry—were bulky and could be seen from across the house.
The microphone itself was round and about the size of a quarter.
It was clipped to the end of a black, plastic rope, and worn as a necklace, dangling just below the clavicle.
A wire attached the mic to its pack, which was mounted on a black, one-inch-thick canvas belt that clipped around the waist. The whole thing gave off “90s pop star,” only way less cool.
The sound woman began passing out mics, instructing us all to put them on so she could test pitch levels and make sure they were transmitting properly.
The scrap of fabric that Chiara picked for me was still clutched in my hand.
Just as I turned back to the clothing rack to swap it out for something a bit less revealing, the same PA from before swooped in and, in a matter of seconds, wheeled out the rack.
So that was it then. There would be no time to argue or to find something else to wear.
I pulled on the dress, shimmying it up over my thighs and butt and settling it on my body in the most covered-up way I could manage. In a shocking twist, it hit just at my fingertips, which was a relief. At least my ass wouldn’t be on display.
My boobs, however, were out for the world to see.
“Looking hot, America!” Jess called out.
“It’s not too . . . ” I said to the room, gesturing at my chest.
“Your tits look ace!” Olivia cried out. At least, I think that’s what she said. Her Scottish accent was so thick I had been struggling to understand her from the moment we met.
Taking her word for it, I slipped on my shoes, put the mic around my neck, and clipped the belt around my waist. It looked ridiculous but at least I wasn’t alone in that. No matter how great everyone looked, a black canvas belt around the waist of a cocktail dress did not make for high fashion.
Soon enough, the sound engineer deemed us all good to go, and we were walking out of the glam room. A flutter of nerves filled my stomach as I trailed after the girls into the hallway.
I wondered who I would talk to that night. If I would “crack on” with anyone. I was so distracted by my spinning mind that I didn’t take much note of the fact that we had halted in the hallway instead of walking out into the garden.
“Hi, loves,” a voice rang out, breaking me out of my spell. Not only was the voice not coming from the speakers above us, but it was one I was quite familiar with.
Harry stood in the hallway, blocking the door leading outside.
“If you could all just wait here one moment, I’ll be letting you know when it’s time to walk out.”
The rest of the girls chatted excitedly around me. I scooted over to where Harry stood, relieved at seeing a familiar face.
“What are you doing here? I thought I wouldn’t see you until tomorrow,” I asked.
“A producer cues you in every night, just so we make sure that the boys are all ready and nothing needs to be reshot. It was supposed to be one of the senior people, but there was an issue with camera transmission, so they subbed me in. I’ll be edited out in post.”
He paused, looking me up and down before smiling and nodding in approval. “The white dress was definitely the right choice,” he said, winking at me.
I was about to ask him how he knew about my dress dilemma when I remembered that everything we did was watched and listened to. My wardrobe choice happened just five minutes ago and yet Harry already knew about it. Of course he did.
I knew this was how it worked; that it was the entire point of the show I had agreed to go on. Still, it was rather unnerving to be so blatantly reminded that my life was not my own anymore; that my privacy was nonexistent.
There was no time to process the sense of paranoia threatening to descend on my mind though, because moments later Harry was opening the door and ushering us out, telling us to have fun and play nice.
And then we were off, strutting down the teak walkway, passing the pool and heading for the fire pit.
The boys were standing in a semicircle, two champagne glasses in each of their hands.
Over the speakers hidden in the bushes, a producer called out, “Girls, please stand next to your partner, who has your drink for the evening. Remember, only two glasses per person. No sharing or giving away your drinks, or you’ll all be on an alcohol ban for a day. Have fun!”
It surprised me that the producers spoke to us through the speakers so freely, directing our actions. I immediately wondered just how real this “reality” show was if they were able to cut it out the chatter so seamlessly.
My internal musings on the show’s editing structure were interrupted by Chiara nudging me forward and up the two small steps that led to the fire pit.
I tried to avoid direct eye contact with Callum as I walked over to him.
He stiffly held out my drink and I took it, murmuring a small “Thanks.”
Everyone around us stood chatting with one another, and yet I couldn’t think of one thing to say to Callum.
My brain was devoid of anything substantive.
All I could focus on, the one singular thought racing through my mind in that moment, was that he smelled good—a warm, heady scent that awoke something deep in my gut.
It should be illegal to smell that good.
I cleared my throat and tried to ignore the fuzzy feeling his scent was causing in my body.
“So,” I said, turning toward him when it became obvious that he would not be the first one to say anything. “You come here often?”
My joke, which I had used many times in many bars in the US and had always been a hit, was met with silence.
Callum merely raised his eyebrows, but I could have sworn that the glare in his eyes had the tiniest hint of amusement. I’d take that as a win, even if he was probably laughing at me and not with me.
Before he could say anything in reply, Jess was tapping her long acrylic nail on the side of her glass and raising it in a toast.
“To a steamy summer filled with lots of laughter, good memories, and,” she said, pausing for effect and looking around dramatically, “love.”
Everyone raised their glasses, clinking them together.
I took a sip of my champagne and made a silent toast to myself.
To a summer of staying here as long as possible, protecting my heart, and trying to have some fun along the way.