Chapter 7
I’m late. And I know what you’re thinking: Cleo, why did you spend so long doing your make-up for a party where you’ll be wearing a mask?
But I have my dinner date with Lockie after, and I wanted to have the best chance of still looking my best, at the end of the night, when the masks finally come off.
I’m not the only reason I’m late though, oh no, because whenever I want things to go right, that’s when they go wrong.
My bus broke down too. I ended up sitting there for ages, waiting for a replacement service, clutching my Eyes Wide Shut mask, until eventually I resorted to getting a taxi, and walking the last little stretch.
So here I am, huffing and puffing down the street, pounding the pavement with my platform heels.
Tonight just… feels like it matters more than it usually would. Not the party itself, not really – I’ve been to so many of these things and it’s always the same endless supply of champagne, arse-kissing and bad choices.
It’s a good chance to get into a good spot with Lockie – we’re going to be living on a boat together, which would be better if we were on more level terms, but…
I don’t know, going to dinner with him, putting some trust in him, it feels like a step that I need to take, to finally get some closure, to move on with my life.
I really did spend an embarrassing amount of time getting ready, standing in front of the mirror, talking myself in and out of alternate dresses, because the one I bought just felt so big and fancy and I went from feeling a million dollars to thinking I looked like a kid playing dress up to realising it was the only thing I could realistically wear if I wanted to fit in.
Which reminds me, I have to put every item of clothing I own back in my wardrobe before I can go to bed tonight.
I’m wearing a floor-length black slip dress, simple but clinging in the right places – aided by one of those oxygen-stealing undergarments that round up all your lumps and bumps.
I opted for a big, chunky platform heel, because I thought it would give me the height needed to make my legs looks longer and slimmer, but also a good base for planting them on the floor.
I’m not my best in stiletto-type heels and the last thing I need is to stack it in front of everyone.
Then of course I have my mask – can’t forget that for a masquerade ball – but the pièce de résistance has to be the ridiculous pink feather boa from that cursed box of adult-only promo supplies.
Well, Lockie said he liked it, so I think it will really make him laugh.
Plus, you know, I want him to know that I’m thinking of him, that I heard him when he said he liked it – this is my version of a white flag (it’s just pink and feathery instead).
If he can make an effort then so can I. And, no, I’m not usually this brave, not even before I got my heart broken, so this is a big deal.
I’m putting myself out there and I’ve no idea what’s going to happen, but I’m hoping several glasses of champagne will help.
I reach the venue, my stomach fizzing with nerves, and hand over my ticket. The bouncer eyes the boa but says nothing. Oh, right, because at a party where everyone is wearing a mask, a few pink feathers are worthy of raising eyebrows.
Inside, the masquerade is in full swing.
It’s like stepping into another world: chandeliers dripping light across the ballroom, the air thick with perfume and booze.
Everyone’s masked, faces half-hidden behind satin, sequins, polished metals.
You just know a bunch of people already had these masks at home… for various reasons.
Women glitter in floor-length gowns, the men are all scrubbed up well in tuxedos – I guess it’s nice, to have a reason to dress up now and then.
There’s a string quartet playing fancy versions of pop songs, which I like, and you can’t look anywhere without seeing a server with a tray of food or drinks, which I love.
The vibe is reality TV meets The Great Gatsby meets some kind of bougie swingers’ party. I’m here for it. Well, I am now – late.
The party has definitely hit its stride.
Everyone looks like they’re having a great time, camera crews are hovering discreetly, and already I can see people vying for attention, and potential airtime.
The thing is we don’t really broadcast it, sometimes we put a few snippets of this online but, for the most part, the party is just a party.
A reason to get drunk and touch each other.
Speaking of which… I’m looking around for Lockie but I can’t see him anywhere. It’s a big room, full of a lot of people, but the masks are obviously making it a lot harder.
A camera crew pass me, briefly pointing the camera at me, which I hate – I’m almost glad to have the mask on.
My heart pounds but I don’t think it’s the cameras, it’s Lockie, I’m excited to see him.
I’ve tried to let my guard down a bit, to make just enough room to let just a bit of him in (that didn’t sound quite so bad until I finished the thought) but my defences have come all the way down, it was that or nothing, so I guess it’s that.
I’ve nothing to worry about, that’s what I need to remind myself. It’s a dream night. The kind of night with an atmosphere that sweeps you away, dazzles you, makes you feel like you’re taking a little bit of a break from real life.
My heels feel like they thump against the polished marble as I look around the bar, letting my eyes adjust to the different lights. That or I can feel my heartbeat in my feet as well as every other part of me.
I catch sight of myself reflected in a mirror along one wall.
For a second, I almost don’t recognise the woman staring back.
The floor-length black slip dress clings in ways I usually shy away from, simple but unforgiving, the kind of cut that makes you either shrink or stand taller.
Suddenly, I feel sort of pumped up. Nervous, but quietly confident.
Do you know what? I even think my feather boa looks fab.
I’m making it work. It’s draped around my shoulders, absurd and loud, nothing like my usual style, but I’m not acting like my usual self tonight.
I decide to grab a glass of champagne from the bar, whether it’s Dutch courage or a prop to make me feel more like I’ve settled in I don’t know, but it can’t hurt.
Then I notice it, that familiar Leeds accent, the voice of the former contestant who has been sending me voice notes all week begging me to let her be one of the surprise contestants we add in as the show goes on.
Elle Shaw. I’ve told her no time and time again, and she’s been getting quite mean, but it is what it is.
Hopefully she doesn’t recognise me with my mask on, she’ll probably just start asking again.
‘Of course I did what I had to,’ she’s saying, her tone dripping smugness.
She’s got her arm hooked with another woman who is eagerly listening to her tale, her mask glittering like a disco ball under the chandeliers.
A drink practically dangles from Elle’s fingers (she must have had a few already) as she tosses her head back and laughs, high and triumphant.
‘I was determined to get back on this show and now I have. A clever combination of manifesting and giving men what they want. Oh, they’re so easy to manipulate.
This little card right here is my meal ticket.
And all it took was a few minutes behind that curtain over there. ’
‘What?’ I blurt.
Normally, I’d roll my eyes and keep walking.
She’s been begging to get back on the show, DMing anyone with even a sniff of production authority, pitching herself as the saviour of the show.
But she says she’s back on the show, and that card in her hand, they’re the business cards Lockie and I carry, to give out to people we meet who might be good for the show.
It has the direct number to the casting line, which we only give to people we want.
And I know I didn’t give her it.
She’s waving it around like it’s her plane ticket to paradise – I suppose it is.
‘Where did you get that?’ My voice comes out sharper than I mean, slicing through the music.
‘What’s it to you?’ she asks.
I take my mask off, so she knows it’s me. As she realises it’s me her smile twists into something even more smug.
‘Cleo. Hi, babe,’ she says. ‘Turns out I didn’t need you after all.’
‘Where did you get that card?’ I ask. ‘Did you say you’re going to be on the show?’
She shrugs, lazy but satisfied. ‘Let’s just say you’re not the only one who controls casting these days,’ she replies. ‘And other people are much easier to persuade.’
Is she… is she saying what I think she’s saying?
She’s got a card, from Lockie, so she can waltz into the show after, what, a fumble behind the curtain?
Is she mad? Is he mad, come to think of it?
Oh, God, he did say she was one of his favourites from an old series.
I thought he was joking, or just… ahh, I don’t know why I expected any different from anyone involved.
This is showbiz, sex is like the main currency, even now, even when you hope and pray that old practices are out, safeguarding is in.
‘Look at you, judging me,’ she replies. ‘And yet you were happy for me to have sex on your island, for ratings.’
Heat floods my cheeks. Anger, shame, humiliation all tangle together, scorching me from the inside out.
I want to march her straight over to Simon, Lockie too, and tell him this is how Lockie is making decisions, with what’s inside his boxers, not his head.
But, of course, Simon has had his own issues over the years with, shall we say, taking advantage of his position.
Even if he’s doing better now, you just know he’ll go to bat for golden boy.
Instead, I bite my tongue so hard it hurts, and walk away before I say something I’ll regret.
It’s not her I’m mad at, is it? It’s him. Lockie. The stupid motherfu—
Not looking where I’m going, I crash into a man and a woman who are dancing.
‘Cleo,’ he blurts.
His dance partner wanders off.
I know it’s Lockie from his voice and his build. He knows it’s me because my mask is off.
He looks almost alarmingly good in a tux – sharp lines, sleek mask, hair slicked back to make him look the part.
A crooked smile hovers at his mouth, like he’s been waiting for me all night.
I look at him, then at his dance partner as she walks off, then back at him.
‘I actually don’t know who that was,’ he says with an awkward laugh. ‘I thought it was you, when she started dancing with me. You’ve saved me a lot of embarrassment. I can’t believe you’re wearing the feather boa, I love it. It suits you.’
There’s just no way that’s true, is it? That he thought it was me. She had long blonde hair, and I know it’s dark in here, but that’s about where the similarities start and stop.
‘She’s like a foot shorter than me,’ I reply.
‘You’re taller than usual,’ he says. ‘Nice shoes. Want to try them out on the dance floor?’
‘I just bumped into Elle Shaw,’ I say, raising my eyebrows.
‘Ahh, you heard, huh?’ he replies, running a hand through his hair. ‘I didn’t think you’d be happy.’
I laugh angrily.
‘We’ll make it work,’ he reassures me.
‘Are you serious?’ I clap back.
‘It’s not a big deal, come on, let’s get a drink,’ he says.
‘I’m good,’ I tell him. ‘I’m going to the bathroom.’
‘We’re still on for dinner later, right?’ he checks, sensing something is wrong.
‘I’m going to have to pass,’ I say plainly, trying to keep my nerve and my cool.
‘What? Why?’
He sounds genuinely baffled. Is he that deluded? I know, we’re nothing to each other, and generally anything goes at these parties, but how could he think I’d be happy with Elle Shaw worming her way in?
He reaches out to me but I sidestep him before he can say another word.
I can feel his eyes following me as I walk away but I don’t look back. I can’t. Because all I can think is: I was about to trust him. I was about to let him in.
How could I be so stupid? I’d let myself believe, for a moment, that there was something real underneath all the sparring. That maybe, if I let him in, it wouldn’t be a disaster.
And now here I am. Humiliated. Angry. Disappointed – I think that’s the worst one.