Chapter 12
The way the island smells is ingrained in my memory. Stepping off the little boat, onto the jetty, the salty sea is what hits me first, then the leaves, and finally that sun cream smell you only seem to experience naturally on holiday. From a bottle, this fragrance would cost a fortune.
It really is a beautiful place. A picture-perfect scene pulled right off a postcard.
White sand, turquoise water, palm trees gently swaying.
It’s like looking at pure paradise, but this paradise looks back.
Even before I spot the cameras hidden in the tree branches, I feel them.
Watching. There’s nowhere to breathe without an audience.
There are cameras almost everywhere. I forget how many there are exactly but every accessible inch of the island is covered.
As we walk past one – one of the security-style ones – I hear the sound of it panning, being remotely operated, capturing footage of us.
I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get used to that noise, the sound of the cameras stalking us, watching our every move.
Capturing the audio feels even more intrusive.
All contestants – including me and Lockie now – have to wear a wristband.
It’s a very clever piece of tech. It runs off solar power, so it never needs charging, and it contains GPS so that contestants can always be monitored – that way, we can’t lose anyone (not that we ever have).
But the main reason we use them is because they contain a little microphone, that connects to receivers all around the island, so that we can capture every sound.
And for ‘safety’ once the wristbands go on they can’t come off, not without the key.
I feel so claustrophobic, with it on my wrist. One of the show’s main features is that it has a live feed so, from the moment the show starts, that’s it, game face on.
Lockie and I exchange silent glances as we walk, I’m nervous whereas he looks more excited. And then they separate us. Lockie disappears one way with a handler, me the other. My stomach twists. I know it’s for the entrance, but suddenly I hate the idea of not having him by my side.
‘All right, Cleo,’ Will, the handler, says as he reaches out to untwist my bikini strap.
The straps are so impossibly thin, like spaghetti, and I appear to lack the elegance to keep them in place.
‘You’re up in thirty,’ he continues. ‘Just remember: smile, breathe, walk out confident. They’re going to love you. ’
I don’t want them to love me – I need them to vote me off the island, ASAP… and yet, I don’t know, part of me does want people to like me. We all want to be liked, right?
I adjust my bikini as I walk. I feel like it’s riding up my butt – or maybe it’s supposed to be there – and I feel little more than a sneeze away from a nip slip, but it’s too late to do anything about it now.
Hilariously, the bikinis seemed like they would cover more than the swimsuits – all of them had those cut-outs that look great if your body is perfect, but otherwise could not possibly contain other lumps and bumps.
Mine is a simple black two-piece. Modest by reality TV standards – which only makes me feel even more self-conscious, because I know everyone else will be in slivers of neon fabric, gracing their perfectly toned, well-oiled bodies.
And then I notice Arabella – the host – waiting to greet me. Arabella obviously knows that Lockie and I are part of the crew, filling in, but she’s a professional so she doesn’t let on.
God, she’s stunning. She’s wearing a slinky bronze dress – there are those cut-outs again – and her hair in her trademark perfect waves that somehow defy the humidity.
‘And you must be Cleo!’ she announces, her smile brighter than the sun above us. ‘Come and join us.’
My legs feel like jelly as I step forward. The sand moves beneath my feet, making me feel unsteady. And here they are, the contestants that Lockie and I spent so long picking out.
Honey. Camilla. Ozzy. Tony. Faces I’ve looked at more than my own reflection recently because we’ve been so busy trying to get everything perfect.
Now they’re staring at me like I’m one of them. This is so surreal.
Honey twirls a lock of platinum-blonde hair between her fingers, batting her lashes, her head tipped curiously. She’s made a name for herself as everyone’s favourite airhead since she was on Roomies, a reality show where people have to live in an apartment together.
Then there’s Camilla. She’s beautiful but she rarely smiles.
Her face is perfectly symmetrical, perfectly pouty, and she looks perfectly miserable to be outside Knightsbridge – even though we’re in paradise.
She’s from City Knights, a fly-on-the-wall show showing the Knightsbridge elite having the time of their lives.
I honestly can’t imagine her lasting five minutes here – then again, I feel the same way about myself.
Tony is from a similar kind of show, except he’s from Essex, and he’s a fun-loving geezer. He keeps running a hand through his hair, making sure it’s perfectly blown back still. He’s got a perfect tan already, and the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen, and I know manicured eyebrows when I see them.
And then there’s Ozzy, a genuine beefcake.
He’s tall and broad, toned to perfection, mixing golden retriever energy with pure rugged manliness.
He wears his longish blonde hair in a man bun, which really works for him, and only adds to his sporty, outdoorsy look.
He’s from some survival show, I never watched it, but they had to go to the toilet in the wild and eat plants.
Whatever he did eat, it looks good on him.
And then, of course, there’s Lockie, and seeing him here, in his trunks, his ripped body on display – you know what? He looks just like one of them, like he was made for this show. The only person who doesn’t look like they belong here is me.
I know them all – too well – and I’m starting to think pretending I don’t is going to be harder than I thought.
‘So, Cleo, our final contestant,’ Arabella purrs. ‘Welcome to Singledom. You and Lockie are our two civilian contestants, joining our reality TV legends. Are you excited?’
Okay, as cover stories go, it’s not the best, but it will have to do. My throat is dry. I can hear the cameras zooming in, I feel like I’m surrounded.
‘Yes.’
Wow, one word, I’m just a big bag of charisma, aren’t I?
Arabella tilts her head, her eyes sparkling on cue.
‘Do you think “the one” might be sitting here, waiting for you?’ she asks me.
She will have asked everyone questions, when they came out, but being the last one makes me feel like I’m being put on the spot.
Me? Find the one? Please. None of these guys are ‘the one’ for me. I can’t say that on camera though.
‘Who knows?’ I say, smiling, shrugging, trying to channel my inner islander. ‘I really hope so.’
I really don’t.
‘I hope you do too,’ Arabella says. ‘So, islanders, your adventure begins right here. Head to your campsite, on the beach, start building shelters, making fires – whatever you need to do to survive the night. If you feel inclined to couple up, you can, but for now – you’re a team.
Give yourselves the best chance of surviving together – tomorrow, you divide and conquer. ’
Okay, now the show really is on the road.
We all walk together, none of us really knowing what to say just yet, although Honey is squealing with each step.
The path is rough sand mixed with patches of dirt, winding through palm groves towards where we camp.
My eyes keep darting, clocking every camera watching us as we go, hearing that noise they make as they pan with us.
There’s nowhere to breathe. Nowhere to get a break from the twenty-four-seven monitoring.
Well, except the outhouse, a shed for one with a bucket that has to be routinely emptied.
Obviously I knew this was the toilet situation, I’ve worked on this show for years, and yet I feel like the reality of it has just caught up with me.
This is where I’ll be ‘going’ for the foreseeable.
The camp itself is just a clearing where the woods meet the beach.
We have some supplies stacked neatly at the edges.
Wooden poles, ropes, palm fronds, a flint kit.
The illusion of survival, prepped and laid out, ready for us to play, and yet it’s all still so real.
Like, I don’t know what to do with any of that, and I’ve seen the show, I’ve seen other people try to survive out here, and yet I’ve never really taken notes – why would I?
Ozzy claps his hands, raring to go.
‘Right! Well, I’ve done this before, so I’m happy to take the lead,’ he begins. ‘So let’s crack on. Tony, Camilla, you start on the shelter poles. Honey, you and Cleo get the fronds. I’ll work on the fire – Lockie, you can help.’
‘What’s a frond?’ Honey giggles.
To be fair, I only know because I’ve seen the show before.
Ozzy is delighted to be in charge, and I don’t mind, because at least someone is taking care of things. If he knows how to make a shelter, that’s one less thing for us to worry about.
‘I’ve just had my nails done,’ Tony says. We all stare at him. ‘What? I like to keep tidy nails, there’s nothing wrong with that.’
‘You knew where you were coming, bro,’ Ozzy tells him.
Camilla narrows her eyes at the poles.
‘I’m not touching them if he isn’t,’ she insists.
‘I can do that,’ Lockie tells them. ‘I’m sure Ozzy doesn’t need me to start a fire.’
‘Not at all, bro, I just wanted to make sure you felt included,’ Ozzy tells him with a pat on the back.
Wow, okay, are the alphas squaring up already?
‘I’ll help you,’ I tell Lockie. ‘Camilla, Tony – you can help Honey.’
‘Thanks,’ Lockie says.
‘You’re welcome,’ I reply.
‘So, Cleo, right? First time on a show like this?’ Lockie asks.
I can’t help but smile.
‘Something like that,’ I reply.
‘I think we’re the only two normal people this year,’ he says.
‘Are you saying that lot aren’t normal?’ I check.
We look over at them. Camilla, Tony and Honey make a pretty useless trio, with none of them really knowing what they’re doing, while Ozzy is the opposite, singing to himself as he starts the fire with ease.
‘Are you saying they are?’ he replies with a chuckle.
We work side by side, pretending we’ve never met, chatting like strangers.
It’s weirdly… easy. Like we’re meeting for the first time all over again.
He asks about my ‘type’, I volley back with banter.
It feels almost natural – until I catch a camera glinting from a tree and my stomach drops, that is.
Because none of this is natural really, is it?
Not the flirting, not the introductions, none of it.
I glance at the others, throwing themselves into the chaos of challenges, or staying true to their reality TV personas, and my throat tightens with respect.
They do this every day. They live their lives like this, putting it all out there in front of the cameras, their good sides and their not-so-good sides, shall we say.
And now, for one night only, I’m supposed to do the same.
It’s just one night, that’s what I need to remind myself. Anyone can do anything for one night, right?
Tomorrow the real contestants will arrive. Tomorrow Lockie and I will be ‘voted off’, sent back to our real jobs, back on the relative safety of the yacht where we belong.
I repeat it to myself in my head like a mantra as the sun dips lower, painting the sky orange. Just one night. Just one night. Just one night.
We’ll be back on the yacht, our fifteen minutes firmly over, before we know it. Right…?