Chapter 9
I don’t know what I was expecting when it came to the boat we’ll be running the show from. Something modest, probably. Practical. I had a sort of fishing boat in my mind, with peeling paint and nets still dangling off the sides.
What I wasn’t expecting was this. A yacht – it might even be a superyacht, although not quite a mega-yacht. Let’s not get carried away.
It’s pristinely white and squeaky clean, multi-tiered, the kind of vessel you see billionaires hanging out on for a holiday. It’s honestly absurd and I kind of love it.
‘Now this is a production budget well spent,’ Simon says, clapping Lockie on the back as we board.
‘Is it?’ I ask, dragging my suitcase up the gangway. ‘Is it a good look, us living it up on a yacht, leaving the contestants on the island alone?’
‘Of course it is,’ Simon replies.
Well, that’s that then.
Lockie’s excitement is almost boyish, the way his eyes light up as we step aboard. And for a moment I wonder if all his big talk about raising the stakes, about putting contestants through hell, was just a scam to bag himself a few weeks on a yacht.
‘Welcome, welcome, welcome!’ Simon says, arms outstretched like we’re on his boat. ‘Can you believe it? Isn’t she magnificent?’
Lockie nods appreciatively.
‘She’s a beauty,’ he replies.
Ick. I try not to roll my eyes.
Simon ushers us around for the grand tour.
Every surface sparkles, like the whole thing is brand new – maybe it is.
There’s a lounge bigger than my entire flat, a dining room lined with crystal glasses and perfectly polished cutlery just waiting to be used, a gym – not that I’ll be spending much time there.
I half-expect him to show us an infinity pool somewhere, but I suppose when you’re in the sea, everywhere overboard is the infinity pool.
But the crown jewel – according to Simon, and as we all know, whatever Simon says goes – is the control room.
A room lined wall to wall with screens, feeds already rigged up to the cameras scattered across the island.
Even though it looks like a ghost town at the moment, the footage looks intimate, intrusive. It sends a shiver down my spine.
‘Twenty-four-seven,’ Simon says proudly, patting the desk like it’s his firstborn. ‘Every angle, every moment. Nothing gets missed – all here on the luxury of this yacht. No more roughing it on the island.’
We were hardly roughing it on the island, in our purpose-built crew quarters, but here we are.
Finally, Simon shows us to our cabin. At first I sweat, at the thought of sharing a room – how could that be? – but we’re not, we’re sharing a living space, which has multiple cabins coming off from it.
‘I thought you two might like to be close,’ Simon says cheerfully. ‘Close-ish… for working.’
I manage a sort of strangled noise that might pass for gratitude. In my head, though, I’m already picturing myself cannonballing overboard just to get away from Lockie.
Before I can say anything, Simon’s phone starts buzzing. He glances at the screen.
‘My weather guy,’ he says, as though that’s a perfectly normal thing to utter. ‘I should take this.’
And with that he takes off, leaving the two of us alone.
‘His weather guy?’ I repeat after a beat.
Lockie drops his bag on the sofa.
‘Haven’t you heard?’ he replies.
‘Heard what?’
‘About the storms,’ he says as he makes himself comfortable.
I blink.
‘Storms? Sort of but… we’re not getting storms here, are we? The weather is perfect.’
I glance out of the window to remind myself that there is in fact sunshine outside – the perfect kind, where it’s bright, warm, but nothing too sweltering or muggy.
‘Perfect for now,’ he replies. ‘But we’re closer to storm season than we usually are.’
‘I wonder if that’s because someone delayed the start of the show, by making us do a bunch of dumb shit,’ I point out.
‘Thanks,’ he says with a smirk. ‘Look, it’s fine, it should miss the island, we’ve got a storm bunker for absolute emergencies. We’ll probably feel it more here, on the yacht.’
‘Oh, stunning,’ I say sarcastically. ‘I’m going to get some air – while I can.’
‘There will be plenty of air when the wind picks up,’ he jokes after me.
Up on deck, the sun beats down, golden and warming, the sea a sheet of glass stretching forever in every direction. It’s too perfect, too still.
I rest my hands on the warm metal railing, stare out at the horizon. It’s hard to believe that somewhere, out there, storms are brewing. That this ocean can rise up, and the sky can fall down, dark and violent, without warning.
But then again, with Lockie around, a storm never feels that far away.