2
“Ah, Viscount Speardon, I’ve just been informed that the last ladies will be here shortly.”
“What’s the fucking delay, Mr Dott?” I growl, narrowing my eyes at the director where he stands flanked by two camera men, clipboard in hand.
It’s been a long, tedious night, and I’ve already had to pretend pleasure at meeting a dozen or more women from every corner of the globe.
Despite knowing how the introductions would play out, I’d started out resigned, gradually grew jaded, and eventually downright depressed as the contestants kept coming, all carbon copies of nothing, and all doomed.
But with this delay, I’ve progressed to pissed off.
The director squirms under my scrutiny.
“Ah, um, ah, and please, call me Gerry. There was a little hold-up on the road…”
I narrow my eyes as I study him. He’s almost a facsimile of the director before him and the one in the series before that, ad nauseam.
I imagine he’s been cast in this role just as every contestant ever was.
They want a type for their director, and they have it: short, sweaty, nervous, yet somehow competent enough at his job to garner the fear and respect of the contestants and crew.
And with a name like Gerry Dott… a ridiculous little man for a ridiculous little show.
‘A show I’m on against my will. No, not against my will. I came for a reason. I have no one to blame but myself for being here. And fucking Falcon!’
The director mops his brow and looks down hurriedly at his clipboard, which seems to me to be more of a prop than a legitimate guide.
“What kind of hold-up?”
“Ah, nothing to trouble yourself with,” he says quickly, too quickly.
‘Christ, they must do a shit-load of editing before this show airs. No one warns you about the interminable time in between takes and the way the bachelor is treated like a mindless prop. Trouble myself? I’ll give you fucking trouble.’
“Director, you seem to be labouring under some kind of misconception.”
“I am?” He looks up, eyes wide.
“Gerry,” I drawl his name and pin him with my eyes.
“Your last bachelor was a trumped-up little asshole from a small royal family in Bavaria with a penchant for bondage and the IQ of a rodent. I, on the other hand, am a Viscount of considerable intelligence, a specialist in tracking and torture and a keen purveyor of human folly. I can tell when you fabricate; I can tell when you obfuscate. Don’t try my patience. ”
“I don’t understand…” he looks at me wide-eyed.
“I know when you’re bullshitting,” I snap. “What’s holding up the women?”
He opens his mouth to answer just as the limo pulls up, and relief crosses his features.
Before I can press him, he raises his chin and shouts.
“And… Action!”