4. 2.
2.
Sebastian
“You’re mad.”
My oldest friend chuckles on the other side of the line and the ocean. Maverick can’t see why I would ever be part of a reality TV, especially the dating kind. I relax my shoulders on the sea of pillows in the hotel provided by the network, one hand holding the phone and the other arm supporting my head.
“I’ll be fine.”
He frowns, “You’re going to be on the telly, Sebastian.”
I shrug. “I’m on TV all the time.”
Maverick puffs. He knows I’m downplaying it. Taking a picture here or there and giving a statement after a charity ball is very different from putting myself out there like this. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Hard not to when I’m sure you hit your noggin. I’m on the edge of my seat here, mate. Waiting until you lose it, so we have to rescue you.”
By “ we” he means him and his husband, Fael. That would be my rescuing team. My oldest friend, his perfect husband, and their two dogs. I love them, but their annoying happiness is one of the reasons I accepted to be part of The Final Rose. But I don’t say that to Maverick. I won’t hear the end of it if I tell him I hope to find someone who will move in with me to the neighboring house and raise our poodles side by side. I don’t say it because then he’ll know for sure I’ve lost my mind.
“My contract is ironclad,” I assure him one more time. “No nudity, no lies. No outlandish plots to see how I’ll react on TV.”
“They have to make it entertaining. They will pull something.”
I know he’s right. I watched enough seasons of The Final Rose to know there’s always drama. I’m signing up for months of dating multiple women in front of the cameras. I know there will be drama. I just won’t accept created drama.
“I know how to mind myself.” I nod to no one. “The contract also helps.”
Maverick laughs, not sure if I’ll ever convince him it’s a good idea, but I’m ready to move on. A town car will take me to the mansion tomorrow morning and I’m a little nervous.
“What do your parents think of The Final Rose ?”
I swear under my breath. I prefer to talk about how the producers will trick me into doing something unseemly on camera rather than talk about what the Riggs think of their son on reality TV.
They don’t think highly, no. I might seem like a good egg, but my mother and father have been disagreeing with my choices for a long time now. I chose the wrong university, and girlfriends from the wrong circles. The wrong accountant for my business, the wrong secretary for my office. Nothing is good for them, so it got to the point where I stopped caring.
What can be done when they simply insist on being pompous fuckers?
“They never watched it.” I confess.
“I can only imagine their faces watching the terror unfolding in front of their eyes. Dragging the Riggs’ good name through the mud.”
“Well, I’m doing it, anyway. I signed a contract with the network before telling them, but Mum’s still calling me non-stop. She’s trying to get me back to London. I’m supposed to see reason, you see.”
“Well, now I want you to stay and be brilliant on TV.” He changes his mind. “Indecorous, if you will. Anything to upset Mama Riggs. You know where I stand.”
I laugh because, of course, Maverick would prefer to die before standing on the same side as the good English society. I guess I’ve got him on board finally, and it’s all I could ask for.
“You’re starting with makeup and then wait for Callie there.”
I have to jog to follow the woman. It’s not even seven in the morning and everything on the set seems to be in full swing. Dozens of people move about the front garden, all in black shirts with The Final Rose logos on the left corner.
I do not know who the woman beside me is. She walks fast and talks even faster. I didn’t get a good morning or an introduction when I arrived. The car door opened as soon as we parked, and she has been talking ever since.
We navigate the halls, my palms sweaty with nervousness, and for the first time, it dawns on me I’m set to be on television. I’m in Los Angeles and I agreed to be on a reality TV show to find a lover.
Maybe my parents were right to be absolutely disgusted.
I gulp and try not to look like I’m about to bolt, following the woman’s steps until we reach a bigger room to the right of the mansion. Smells like strong perfume and the hairspray mother uses when she’s going to a charity event. A woman, looking no older than eighteen years old with green hair and multiple face piercings, waits by a chair. She faces me when we arrive, her eyes cataloging my form like she’s making a list of things that need to be corrected.
“I’ll send Callie.” The woman barks at the makeup artist and turns on her heels.
“Thank you?” I say. Her intimidating demeanor makes me question myself, when I turn, the makeup artist has a little smile.
“Forgive Anya. She’s not really a people person.” She shows her makeup chair and I sit.
“Oh, I thought she was terribly polite.”
She snorts, clicking her tongue. “They’re going to put up a sign every time you talk.”
“Do I need subtitles?”
“For your sarcasm.” She arches a brow, looking at me through the mirror. “I’m Doris, by the way.”
Doris, what an old-fashioned name for a young girl with green hair. “I’m Sebastian. Tell me this will be quick.”
Doris tilts her head to the side. Bringing her finger to my chin, she turns my head from one side to the other.
“You’re looking clammy and red.”
“Terrific.”
“It won’t take long.” She ignores me. “I’ll do something about your hair, too.” She picks one strand, feeling the quality of it.
So now I feel like a horse waiting to know its value. Not very valuable if I’m going by Doris’ face.
I’m told that I have a head full of hair, like that’s the best news she can give me. Then, I’m taken to the sink to get my hair washed, while Doris tells me all about how things could be much worse. By the end of my washing, I am indeed glad that all I am is clammy and red-faced.
We are back in the chair. Doris has a hair dryer on hand, its wire looping around her neck as she selects the best-looking brush from her cart.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Doris!” says an unfamiliar voice. “Anya, you know how it is…”
My gaze locks onto the new stranger through the mirror. She’s wearing the same branded logo on her shirt as the rest of the crew. Shoulder-length wavy hair with the top part twisted in a bun, denim shorts and old-looking trainers. She has a walkie-talkie hooked to the waistband of her shorts and a clipboard.
That must be Callie, the one I was promised.
We regard each other through the mirror. Her eyes warm, her bottom lip full and parted. They told me American girls were good-looking, but Callie is something else.
“You must be Sebastian. I’m sorry I’m late.” She moves from behind me, grabbing a chair to the side and turning it so we can look at each other while Doris works her magic.
The hair dryer muffles Callie’s next words.
“What?” I ask over the noise.
“I’m Callie!” She says louder, throwing Doris a look. “I’m going to wait…” She shakes her head, annoyed at shouting to be heard.
Doris turns off the hair dryer. “I’m doing my job, Sosa.”
“Do it quietly,” Callie replies, but with warmth. “It’s not even seven in the morning.”
“Well, maybe it’s good for you to exercise that voice and…”
Callie narrows her eyes. “Are you in on the bet?”
Doris doesn’t reply and turns on the thing again. Callie sighs, turns around, and takes the wire off the plug.
“Hey!”
“I can’t believe you're on the bet!” Callie accuses.
I shake my head, trying to follow. “What bet?”
I half expect them to keep talking over me, but Callie replies. “They have a bet about how long it will take for me to lose my voice. It took a month last season. And a month and a half the season before.”
“Is she a screamer?” I ask Doris.
She chuckles. “Oh, I like the way he says it. You’ll do great on television.”
I give a flashy grin, “Brilliant. It’s my lifelong dream.”
Callie chews on her lip. “He’s gonna need a sarcasm sign or something.”
“I know!” Doris agrees over my head.