Chapter 3
I came here to escape how awful it is to be me, but instead I’ve become a whole new type of public outcast. My brother’s some big cheese around here, and I’m like a Babybel that’s been forgotten at the back of the fridge. I love Oscar, and I owe him everything for helping me to get this job, and so quickly too. But…I thought I was coming on board to hide, and more importantly, for a fresh start. New hair. New name. New career. My plan was to blend in with every other crew member, have no notable quirks or backstory, and simply coast through the next six months as plain old unsuspecting Megan. And then he went and made it abundantly clear we’re related. I get it. He thought it would give me some kind of “in,” but so far, it’s only given everyone a reason to push me out. No one seems to be able to relax around me, as if they think I’ll report any bad behaviour straight to the top. Even my mentor, Matt, who I’m convinced would chat up his own reflection given half the chance, wants nothing to do with me.
I guess I can’t really complain though. Beggars can’t be choosers and whatnot. I have to take any opportunity for normalcy I can get, because that’s the reality of my situation now. At least here I’m safe – and distracted – which is more than can be said for being back home. And while I may be unhappy with how this escape has panned out, no one recognises me. Most of the passengers are American, and whatever crew that are on here from the UK haven’t had access to national television since I was stupid enough to feature on it, so that’s something.
Eliza holds my brother’s hand ahead of me as we walk along the beach, two of her steps matching one of his. There was talk of Tom tagging along today, but it’s ended up only being the three of us, and I’m a weird mix of relieved and disappointed. Relieved because even though it’s been two weeks since we met, I still can’t stop my cheeks from flushing at the sight of him or the mention of his name, and I’m terrified of someone catching on to what happened between us. And disappointed because I have this stupidly enormous crush on him – have done ever since he started appearing on Oscar’s photo stream – and I want to spend time with him.
He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever laid eyes on – even more so in person. And his personality? His charisma? It’s extraordinary, and something you rarely come across in British guys – on that level anyway. And his accent… That accent… Talk about sexy. He’s like one of the hot Disney Channel actors I used to fancy as a girl. I’ve been on the receiving end of plenty of parasocial relationships before, but I never thought I’d be unhinged enough to fall into one myself. And then I met him. And it was like every fantasy come to life – besides the room full of people having sex. Though that wasn’t the vibe killer it should have been…
I completely mistimed my “you need to let me make my own connections” speech to Oscar, because the day after I gave it, Tom arrived, and when I tried to back out of spending time with my colleagues, Oscar brought it up again and I lost my chance at a natural introduction. I couldn’t exactly explain to my brother why I was suddenly so keen to sit at his table after complaining about it less than twenty-four hours earlier. He’d have a meltdown if he knew the fantasies I’ve concocted about his friend. That and I’m stubborn. Then my nerves and paranoia completely ruined mine and Tom’s eventual meet-cute and I was desperate for a do-over. I was terrified I’d been spotted, and I couldn’t think rationally, but after some reflection, I assumed he must have recognised the family resemblance, not the face of the most hated woman in the UK. Cue the most out-of-character sequence of events ever: tracking down one of Oscar and Eliza’s friends I’d only met once, accidentally inviting myself to her sex party by lying about who invited me (Tom), then actively – and more than willingly – engaging in foreplay with the guy I’ve been fangirling over since last September. Gemma would never do anything of the sort, but Megan? She lives on the edge, and I like it.
Lord, maybe I really am as crazy as people think. I’ve created an alter-ego I actually prefer. Oh no. What if Gemma feels like she’s being replaced and starts acting out? I’ve never read Jekyll and Hyde, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t end well.
We’re not too far down the beach when a hand slips into mine. Not just anyone’s hand – Tom’s. I tense and check that my brother and Eliza, now a few steps ahead, aren’t looking our way. What happened to us pretending we aren’t romantically involved? When I try to pull away, Tom doesn’t let me; instead he’s in a standoff with a group of neanderthal lowlifes on sun loungers beside us, who are laughing among one another and leering at me. Yes, I noticed them, but once I realised they didn’t know who I was – they would have their phones out if they did – I went back to doing what I always do with catcallers and unwanted attention: I ignored it.
“I have watched every head on this beach turn for you,” Tom informs me once the creeps are behind us, his voice low and…possessive?
And with one sentence he so easily undoes all the hard work I put into convincing myself we don’t have a future.
Don’t blush. Don’t swoon. Don’t freak out.
The day I realised I was pretty, I discovered what my value was. I could be smarter than everyone in my school year, the captain of every sports team, but my looks were the only thing people ever commented on. The attention I got was always for the way my blouse fit tighter than the other girls’, or because I had “blow job lips,” or because my skirt looked shorter than everyone else’s due to my never-ending growth spurts. It wasn’t until I had to start thinking about further education that I realised, ironically, the smartest thing I could do to be successful was to use my looks. Within a year, I was earning more money in a month through sportswear brand deals alone than my classmates would earn in their future graduate jobs, alongside running a successful charity.
“You should probably let go.” I make a point of glancing over at my brother.
Tom’s protective hand slips from mine, and he holds both up like he’s under arrest. “Yep, sorry. Just wanted those assholes to stop staring.”
Before I’m left alone with my thoughts for too long, we arrive at Oscar’s favourite ice-cream place. Tom makes a beeline for the glass counter, forgetting me behind him, and I can’t hide my smile. I’ve met the man, but today I’m seeing the boy.
They’ve got the quirkiest selection of flavours: Jamaican rum cake, s’mores, and coconut plantain.Then there are sorbets: pink lemonade and Ting, which piques my interest. My mouth salivates, and just as I think I might be brave enough to get one, I remember why I can’t. It’d be bad enough getting recognised, but getting recognised pigging out on ice cream? I’d be crucified.
The shop owner with grey curls and smile lines hands Tom a cup overflowing with pink lemonade sorbet before sticking a colourful spoon into the side of the slush. Eliza gets a cone of pi?a colada-flavoured ice cream, and Oscar one of candy floss. He throws a hopeful, supportive look my way while the other two are distracted, but I shake my head.
“Wait up – Megan hasn’t ordered hers yet!” Tom calls to the others as we head out of the shop and back onto the beach.
I wave him off. “Oh, no, I’m fine.”
We continue our walk, but Tom takes a few seconds before following. “Are you lactose intolerant?”
“No.” I shrug casually even as awkwardness claws at my insides.
“You know they’d offer you a sample to help you pick which one to get. Wanna try some of mine?” He uses his spoon to point at his pot.
Yes.
“Nah, I’m good. Thank you though.”
“How’s your plan for world domination coming along?” Oscar steals Tom’s attention.
Tom shrugs. “Meh, I gave up. I’m not savvy enough to keep up with all that.”
“Megan’s advice didn’t get you anywhere?”
Ah, I forgot I was supposed to have helped him. Though, if I’m completely honest, I’m relieved he didn’t bring it up. The last thing I ever want to see again is a social media app.
“I’m way past saving. Wasn’t gonna waste your time.” Tom covers for us, and gratitude warms me. He’s going for casual, but there’s a tinge of defeat in his eyes.
Nothing he could ask of me would be a waste of my time. I might find it triggering, but if I could save his page and subsequently make him happy, I’d do it in a heartbeat, even if it would be to my detriment.
“What’s your niche?” I ask.
“My what?”
“Your niche. Your specialty.”
“Oh, my nitch.”
“You’re saying that wrong, but yes, your nitch. You’re a comedian, right?” I ask as if I don’t absolutely know the answer to that already.
He sucks on his spoon, and I cannot take my eyes off his lips. “Mm-hmm.” He finishes his mouthful. “I was posting clips from my sets. Which I can’t exactly do now.”
“Maybe not, though there’s nothing stopping you from reposting the content that works every now and then. But also, there are so many other ways to make comedy content without gigging.”
“Yeah?”
I’ve spent years watching others try and fail to become vloggers, all of them making the same mistakes. They film and edit some great material but then completely give up when it comes to getting their videos in front of the right people. Why bother putting in all that time and effort if you’re not going to do it properly? It’s like a chef making a five-star meal and throwing it at the wall.
“You’ve just got to work with what you have. You have one of the most unique lifestyles in the world, which means you’ve got something over everyone else trying to film day-in-the-life videos simply by being here, so use that. People back home have to film themselves opening their curtains and brushing their teeth as if that’s some groundbreaking event that needs to be publicised. Take a look around you – what’s there not to show off about?”
Instead of shifting his focus to our surroundings with a new appreciation like I thought he would, he stares at me in horror. “You want me to start a vlog? What about the comedy?”
“Not a vlog necessarily. But like, film little bits of your day, edit them together, and record a comedic voice-over once you’re done. So yes, I guess that’s a vlog, but you do it your way. Tailor it to your ideal demographic. Do you know the best time of day to post for your audience?”
Tom shakes his head as if I’m speaking in tongues.
“That’s okay. We can figure it out. How long have you been posting for?”
He looks up thoughtfully as he does some time-math in his head. “Six…ish weeks, I think. Before I gave up.”
“Oh wow, not long. There should be some stats to look over though. If you’re up for it, I can take a look at some good hashtags for you too, and then?—”
“Are you some kind of influencer?”
It dawns on me suddenly how utterly idiotic I’ve been. I was meant to be keeping my cards close to my chest, and here I am, giving him more than a peek at my hand. I have no choice but to lie.
“No. I, uh…just used to run the social media accounts for one.” Technically true. Jekyll would probably speak of Hyde as if he were an entirely separate person too…“How many followers do you have?” I put the attention back onto him.
“Just over ten thousand,” Tom reveals, and I’m taken aback. It’s hard to get to one thousand in a couple of months, let alone ten in only weeks. “I had a head start,” he clarifies. “How about you, on the accounts you were running?”
“I can’t actually remember…”
“Combined, 1.5,” Oscar inserts, turning around with that “proud big brother” smile on his face. He’s been trying to build my confidence back up ever since the event that knocked it all down, and that’s great and all, but could I not have kept it vague? Also, I could have done without the “point five” reminder. I had one million when I went on that show. Why couldn’t that have been enough for me? Gaining 500 thousand followers in five weeks is only a good thing if they like you.
“Thousand? Nice.” Tom nods as if he’s happy for me, but I can tell he’s dismissing all my advice. If he doesn’t see me as credible, he won’t try what I’ve suggested, and then he’ll always feel a little bit downtrodden. And he shouldn’t ever not have a smile on his face.
There’s also a teeny-tiny part of me that’s desperate to impress him.
“Million.” I correct him.
Tom chokes on his sorbet. “Holy shit! Are you serious?”
I don’t miss the fact he doesn’t look to the others for clarification. He’s only looking at me, ready to take me at my word. For some stupid reason, it makes me emotional. I’ve spent the past month being gaslit, having my words twisted and used to turn my followers against me, so I could be portrayed as someone I’m not by a whole team of TV executives. And the entire country believed them. Yet Tom’s here admiring me as if there isn’t a single chance I’m not telling the truth.
Bloody hell, I need therapy.
“That’s insane! Damn, I shoulda been taking notes. Okay, so I film little clips throughout the day, edit them, make some jokes over the top, and then post it.”
“No, then come to me and I’ll make sure you post it the right way.”
He nods seriously, then he grins again. “Thank you so much. Whoa, okay, this feels manageable.” He glows for a moment and then dulls. “My Wi-Fi bill’s gonna be huge.”
The downside of having one of the most unique lifestyles in the world.
“I mean, if you haven’t posted for a while already, I think there’s no harm in taking this next week to film as much as you can. Then we can get you a scheduling app and upload everything for the coming week at a café, ahead of time.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He takes a spoonful of sorbet, his eyes closing as he takes a second to really enjoy it. Is that the same face he’d make if I touched him?
Why didn’t I touch him?
“Ice creams in, everyone!” I shout. I get my phone set up ready to record, then I hand it over to Tom. I look over his shoulder and direct them all to hold up their ice creams – or what’s left of them – with the ocean as the backdrop. Five seconds or so is all he needs, one lap of the waves on the shore, and that’s it. “It’s as easy as that.”
His eyebrows rise. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
Oscar takes Eliza’s hand again, and they walk ahead of us. Tom finishes the rest of his sorbet in cheerful silence beside me.
“How can you not like ice cream?” He can’t seem to drop it.
“I never said I didn’t like it.”
“So why?—?”
“I can’t eat sugar.”
All Tom does is blink. “What? How? Why? Is that a medical condition? Nope, that’s a rude question… I take it back, sorry.”
I chuckle. “No, not a medical condition. I just…try not to have it.”
“But everything’s okay in moderation.”
I believe that too, but after they set me up as some junk food-hating lunatic on that show, I can’t take the risk of eating it anymore – not in public, at least. “Except Brussels sprouts. Those are never okay,” I deflect.
A giggle bursts out of Tom. “Okay, yeah, except Brussels sprouts. But imagine if all that delicious ice cream back there was sugar-free – what flavour would you pick?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because I can tell a lot about a person based on their favourite ice cream flavour.”
“What a load of twaddle.” I call him out.
“All right, all right, I’m just curious!”
“S’mores,” I say, having considered it at length in the shop.
He smirks at me. “Didn’t have you down as a campfire girl. You ever had real s’mores?”
“Once, on a school camping trip. They made so much mess, but they were delicious.” Oh, to be that girl again…
We reach the end of the beach and begin to walk back on ourselves. Halfway home, Tom jogs ahead and draws a line in the sand, insisting we race to the big palm tree maybe four hundred metres away. Eliza’s up for it straight away, Oscar talks Tom down from adding any kind of stakes, and I don’t waste time with smack talk because I know I’m going to win.
“On your marks…” Tom calls out, crouching down, pretending he’s a sprinter. “Get set…” He sticks his bum in the air. “Go!”
We launch ourselves over the starting line, kicking up sand behind us. My brother’s all strength and no speed. Eliza hates running, only ever exercising to keep fit but never to train. Regardless, she squeals as she tries to keep up with Oscar. And Tom is like a Jelly Baby, one happy ball of energy, the sugar rush from the ice cream evident as he flies ahead of the others. The thing none of them have, though, is the combination of my speed and stamina. Tom begins to crash and burn, and he keeps trying to push through, but I’m way out in front and he knows he can’t catch up. I make it to the palm tree with enough time to pull out my phone and film the rest of them crossing the “finish line”.
Everything’s an opportunity to make content.
“Damn, you’ve got some speed on you, Gem.”
Gem. I want nothing more than for him to call me that, but I can’t risk him being overheard. “You know it’s Megan, right?” I say as casually as I can.
“I know.” He smiles to himself.
We catch our breaths and continue on. Eliza and I chat for a while, and when I look back, Tom’s nowhere to be seen. I scan the area, noticing the ice-cream shop, and inside, Tom’s back at the counter laughing with the owner about something. It’s so endearing how happy he is all the time, and how happy he makes everyone else around him.
I slow down so he can catch up when he’s ready to, but then he calls out to me.
“Megan! Come take a video of this!”
He’s getting the hang of it already.
Eliza and Oscar carry on as I go find Tom. The owner watches my arrival, reaches for a mini spoon from a pot on top of the counter, and dips it into a metal tub behind the glass, handing it to Tom.
“What am I filming?” I put my hand out for his phone.
“Oh, nothing. That was just to get you in here.”
“Huh?”
“Okay, so you’re forcing me to vlog.”
“Forcing you?”
“Shh, okay, encouraging. Which means I get to encourage you to have a little bit of sugar. Some would even say a moderate amount.” There’s that boyish grin again. He holds out the taster scoop for me. Mini toasted marshmallows and small chunks of biscuit stick out of the chocolate ice cream, and my tongue starts to feel like it’s dripping.
I look around the shop full of couples, friends, and families enjoying their sundaes. Safe enough, if you’re fine with playing fast and loose with your reputation. But if any of these people see through my disguise, or if they take a picture that later gets uploaded onto their socials and someone else sees me in the background, I’m screwed.
“What’s the worst thing that’s gonna happen?”
I could quite literally list a million consequences. I can’t handle more public shaming than I’ve already faced.
“What will people think?” I mumble.
Fraud. Sham. Liar.
Worry mars Tom’s face. “What people?” he asks gently.
“I shouldn’t.”
His worry melts away and is replaced by something else. “No one’s watching you.”
I scan the room again. He’s right. I know he is. But then I look at the owner, confused but with a warm, grandfatherly smile on his lips.
“Jamal, please close your eyes,” Tom requests.
Jamal’s smile grows, and he does.
Tom leans in closer to me. “Sometimes it’s fun to do the things you shouldn’t.” His voice is so low it rumbles through me, awakening the part of me that wants to take risks around him. The part that feels safe enough in his presence that I can.
I take the spoon and Tom closes his eyes tight. With the spoon in my mouth, my own eyes close as the taste I’ve been craving hits the spot. It tastes so delicious I actually moan. When I swallow and open my eyes, Tom’s peeking at me, his mouth agape.
“Good?”
All I can do is nod like some ice cream-drunk fool. He and Jamal laugh softly.
“Can we get a taster of pink lemonade too, please?” Tom flashes a cheeky smile at Jamal, and he gladly obliges.
“Oh, no, Tom, I can’t. Please?—”
“Relax. This one’s for me.” He sucks the spoon into his mouth, pulling it out from his lips so slowly it’s like he’s filming some kind of erotic advert, and it makes my pulse deepen a little.
He leaves a note in Jamal’s tip jar and floats out of the shop.
“I’ll see you next week, my friends,” Jamal says after us.
“Yes, you will,” Tom confirms over his shoulder, his smile about ready to burst his cheeks.