Chapter 15
Five months earlier
“Are you sure you want to do this? You’ve seen what can happen to these people afterwards.”
I chuck my phone into the basket of warm laundry from the dryer and carry it up to my room, ready to organise it all into packing cubes. “Harassed by trolls, ugly pictures from before their glow-up leaked by school friends, people rating their bodies on podcasts. It’s nothing I haven’t already coped with in the past three years.”
Oscar stays quiet, agreeing but clearly working out what else he could say to deter me. He hasn’t had very long to sit with the announcement I’m going on what’s set to be the next big dating show, but then again, neither have I. It was onlytwo weeks ago that a casting researcher slid into my DMs, and everything’s moved so fast since then.
“I think you need to take some time to think about it.”
“I’m being picked up for my flight at 5 a.m. tomorrow. I can’t exactly back out now.”
I mull over which pieces from my extensive bikini collection to take with me. I would take them all, but we’re going to be in ski gear, thick coats, and bobble hats most of the time. The info pack said we don’t need many, but some dates might involve a hot tub.
When Oscar doesn’t reply, I continue my reassurance campaign. “I’ve worked so hard to get to where I am, and to build my platform to what it is. I’ve always made my own opportunities, and I’ve toughed it out in spite of everything in the hope that one day it’ll pay off and work will come to me. This could be huge.” I didn’t even apply; I got recruited via Instagram. I was noticed.
“I know. But it’s… I’m…scared for you. That’s all. Not because I don’t think you’re tough enough to handle it, but because I’m not sure I’m tough enough to watch people tear you apart. Because they will, no matter who you are. You’re the type of person people envy, and envy has a way of bringing out the worst in someone. It’ll be everything you’ve experienced but a thousand times over.”
I take a second to centre myself. “I know. But things have changed in the wake of… There are duty-of-care procedures in place. I’ve already seen a psych, been given the talk of doom?—”
“Talk of doom? Because that’s not a red flag.”
“It sounds scarier than it is. They walk you through the worst-case scenario, and again, it’s stuff I face on the daily and I’m still standing.” I pull up Instagram. “I’m going to unfollow you and archive anything with you in it. You should set your socials to private before your internet runs out too.”
They can come for me, but not for my family.
“Promise me you’ll be careful. Think before you speak. Prioritise yourself, because no one else will. So long as you stay true to who you are, you’ll be fine.”
Part of me wonders if he’s saying that last bit to comfort me or himself. “Thank you.”
“And don’t trust anyone. The guys they put on these shows?—”
“It’s a career move, nothing more,” I say, but I don’t fully mean it. I’m not going to get my hopes up, but it would be nice to meet someone who likes me for me, and not for my looks or my follower count.
He sighs, and silence stretches between us. “You’re really going to do it, aren’t you?”
I take a second to consider pulling out. “Yeah, I am.”
“Okay.” He breathes out, and with that one noise I know he’s done playing “man of the house”. “Do me a favour?”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t feed the plant.”
I smile. It’s the finale song and overall moral of Oscar’s favourite musical, “Little Shop of Horrors”. Some cute, nerdy guy gets tricked into killing people and feeding them to a singing Venus flytrap to get enough notoriety to win over the love of his life. Who, depending on which version you watch, ultimately gets eaten by the plant too, leaving him with nothing. Oscar’s obsessed with the movie, but it always gave me nightmares. What he’s saying in his own special way is, “Don’t sell my soul for fame and success.”
“I won’t.”
The call came in a few hours ago. After being held captive in a hotel room somewhere in Canada for eleven days – eleven. Days.Without my phone. – it’s finally time. I’ve been brought in as an “Avalanche”, chosen by the public to go on a date with Gavin, a property broker to London’s elite. I say “date”… He could have easily been set up with the producer, because I don’t think I said anything she didn’t feed to me line by line. It was honestly like a naff comedy spy film where someone’s hiding behind a menu on the next table over, telling you what to say. It’s overwhelming, and it’s going to take some getting used to, but loss of autonomy aside, I think it went well.
The crew pack up their equipment and head out of the remote cabin we’ve been filming in, but we’re told to stay behind while they bring the 4x4 around to pick us up. I breathe a quiet sigh of relief when the door closes behind the last runner to leave, looking over at Gavin, sure he’ll have the same reaction as me. But his finger is pressed against his lips as he shakes his head, soundlessly shushing me. Then he taps the top of his chest, signalling the mics we’re both wearing around our necks like collars.
But we aren’t filming anymore…I guess someone could still listen in though.
My gaze sweeps the ceiling, checking for cameras rigged in the corners like they are on other reality shows – and back at the main lodge too, I suspect – but there’s nothing. The ongoing silence isn’t awkward, but there’s a tension in the room, thick like smoke.
What the hell have I signed myself up for?
The sky was clear when I first skied down the mountain to Gavin, but it began to snow when we arrived at the cabin. Wind whistles down the chimney and in through the fireplace, and now the adrenaline of filming has begun to wear off, I’m struck by a chill. The longer we wait, the worse the wind gets, and I can no longer see through the windows by the front door. They’d better come get us soon, or else we’ll get snowed in.
The sound of a radio crackling on the kitchen counter startles us both. “Gavin, Gemma, can you hear me?” It’s the producer’s voice. She talked enough for the past hour – or was it longer? – for me to recognise her easily.
Gavin and I stare at each other nervously for a moment, and then he moves to pick up the radio and reply.
“There’s a blizzard passing over – it’s not safe to come and get you.”
No. It can’t be that bad, can it?
“You’re going to have to sit tight and ride it out until it clears up.”
What? Refusing to believe it, I head over to the door and try to open it while Gavin asks more questions. The door doesn’t budge, and the windows are already a wall of white, but I can’t tell if it’s from the snow that’s settled or the mist of snow falling thick and fast.
Oh no.
Gavin sets the radio back down on the counter, then he reaches into his pocket and removes the mic’s battery pack, turning it off before loosening the wire around his neck and lifting it over his head. Without questioning it, I do the same. Then we just stare at each other, the reality of our situation settling in.
He’s clean-shaven and has mousey-brown hair. I wouldn’t say he’s my type, but he’s definitely handsome, no question. He’s a posh boy, though from what I gleaned from the words being fed to him, he’s also relatively down-to-earth.
“Hi,” he says with a sweet smile.
“Hi,” I reply, less sure of myself.
It’s clear that even though I’ve been on a date with him already, I haven’t actually met him yet. This is him, the real him, and despite being told he’s trapped here for the next few hours or days – how bad is it out there? – he’s keeping his cool.
“Apparently, there are some tins of things the owner keeps stocked here that we can help ourselves to. Let’s get dinner sorted, and then I’ll answer all the questions I imagine you have.”
Yes. Please.
“So you don’t think you guys will last?”
We lost power very shortly after Gavin finished cooking a surprisingly edible bean chilli, and with no sign of the weather easing up anytime soon, we reluctantly accepted that this is where we’re spending the night. The biggest issue with that, though, is there’s only one bed. I guess I knew I’d be sharing a bed with someone when I came on the show – that’s all part of it – but sharing a bed in a room full of other people doing the same thing is very different from being alone. I’ve not done that before.
“Not a chance, but it’s about keeping up appearances.”
It’s freezing-cold and the wind is howling, not to mention my mind is racing a mile a minute, so I doubt I’ll get any sleep tonight. We’re wrapped up under the covers, both of us staring up at the ceiling, close enough to keep warm, but neither of us has initiated spooning, and I can’t tell if I’d want that. Maybe I would and that’s why I want to know if he’s serious about who he’s currently paired up with or not. Christ, I can’t think straight at all.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
He turns his head towards me, and I turn mine to him. So much passes between us in just a look.
“It’ll be over soon.”
Does he mean the storm or the show? Because I know I wasn’t talking about the storm.
His hand reaches up to the side of my face and I sink into the comfort of it. He leans in, and my heart rate picks up as he kisses me softly. And for no other reason than it feels good and will distract me from the panic overwhelming me, I kiss him back.
We’re rescued sometime in the morning and blindfolded for the journey home as we were on the way in. It’s a bit overkill considering the NDAs they had us sign, but I comply nonetheless.
I didn’t realise how disorientating it would be not knowing the time. It could be 6 a.m. or 12 p.m. The only thing I have to go off is my hunger, and right now, I’d say I’m at least 8 a.m. hungry. But surely it’s later than that? The sun couldn’t have melted all the snow so fast, could it? Perhaps that chilli was more filling than I thought.
My pulse hammers in my ears as we pull up to the lodge, and we’re told we can remove our blindfolds. Everything about the place screams “big budget”. It’s a ginormous chalet, all wood and glass. I was envisioning something like where we were yesterday on a slightly larger scale, rustic and homey, but this is glamour. If someone told me it was owned by the Kardashians, I’d believe them, no question.
We stand outside for a while, until we’re instructed to hold hands and enter quietly. I try not to react as I’m met with a panoramic view of the snow-tipped mountains through the window running the entire length of the outside wall, but it’s stunning, untouched by the bad weather. Everyone’s sitting on plush sofas adorned with (hopefully fake) fur throws, staring at a huge TV – not that there’s anything on it. The roaring fireplace on the far wall taunts me while we wait for the other contestants to notice us.
And we wait.
Finally, heads turn, but no one stands up to greet us. Have they been told not to say anything? Are the producers about to jump in and film our arrival again from three different angles? I already know I’d hate that, but I’d prefer it way more than whatever’s going on now. Silence has never felt so loud.
At long last, someone gets up. A girl with long auburn hair. As she heads our way, I notice the mascara running down her cheeks.
Gavin lets go of my hand and reaches out for her. “Jazz, what’s wrong?”
“Fuck off, Gav.” She flinches away and continues walking past us, running up the staircase.
A warm sinking feeling overwhelms me. Why were they all crowded around the TV?
The rest of the girls follow Jazz upstairs. Most of them don’t spare me a glance, but the ones who do look at me as if I killed their childhood pets.
Why were they all crowded around the TV?
Gavin tries to go after Jazz, but one of the guys gets up to stop him. “Not a good idea, man. Give her a minute.”
I’m glad Gavin looks as confused as I do, but he’s welcomed onto the sofas by the guys while I’m left standing there, not knowing what to do or say. Gavin wipes a hand down his face as he tips his head back and groans.
I pray for someone to emerge from a room down the corridor and clue me in on what the hell is going on, but no one does. No one’s coming to save me.
I’ve never felt so uncomfortable in all my life. I could be naked in a street and have my hate comments written in Sharpie across my body and I’d still feel more comfortable than I do here. This has to be some kind of nightmare I can wake up from. It has to be.
When pinching myself doesn’t work, I head in the direction of the corridor in search of a toilet or a coat cupboard I can curl up in and cry. The first door I try is locked, so I try the next one, and then the next, until I find one that gives. There’s a small corridor and then another door, which goes through to a toilet. I walk through it, lock the door, close the lid, and sit on it, finally letting out the sob I’ve been holding in.
What am I doing here?Were we filmed last night? Were there cameras hidden in that room? I realise now that no one said we weren’t being filmed, but there were no obvious signs we were being filmed either. Someone went to great lengths to ensure that was the case.
I give myself a minute to panic before setting myself straight again, and when I go to blow my nose, I look up, paranoia crawling over my skin. Yep – there’s a camera in here too. Seriously? What about when I actually need to use the bathroom? I can’t even think about that right now. If we were filmed and the other contestants saw something, that means the whole world saw it too. Obviously, I know what I signed up for – or at least I thought I did – but I assumed I’d at least know when the cameras were rolling and when they weren’t.
I’m so bloody stupid!
There’s a knock on the door. Someone must have tracked me down. Though that’s not exactly hard in a place under better surveillance than Buckingham Palace.
“Just a second!” I call out, standing up to preen myself in the mirror. God, I’m a right state.
I plaster on a smile, even though it’s pointless because it’s more than obvious I’ve been crying, and then open the door. I’m greeted by a man – another contestant, I think. Gentle. He has tight brown curls on top of his head with blonde tips. Worry is etched on every part of his face.
“Was there a storm last night?” I blurt out, because the question is burning me alive.
“Huh?”
“A blizzard. Were you trapped here last night?”
“No. Why?”
Anger rages inside of me. They’re playing poker while I thought we were playing gin rummy. Oscar’s warning sinks in now, a few hours too late. Don’t. Trust. Anyone.
“What’s going on?” I ask urgently, not giving him a chance to ask me the same thing.
“Those guys were, like, the couple, and everyone saw you break them up.”
Yep. We were set up. “I didn’t break them up. I didn’t…mean to. He said… What did you see?”
He looks up, raising his brow as if he’s working out how to say it best. “You guys were in bed, and you said, ‘I don’t think you guys will last. Forget about her right now.’And then you kissed him, and the duvet moved a lot.”
“What? I didn’t say that… I…” I was fed lines on our date, but none of them were that. I would have questioned it. “He said he wasn’t into her. He kissed me. It was one tiny kiss. I’m not even sure why, but that was it! The duvet moved because we were doing the cold bed dance from ‘Miranda’ to try to stay warm.” Knowing now that there was no blizzard and therefore no power cut, it hits me just how much control the people who make this show have over us. All my fingers and toes had felt like ice.
The door behind him whips open, and someone dressed in all-black with a headset on glares at us. “Can we get you both in the lounge, please?” It’s phrased as a question, but it’s an order. To both of us.
With his back to the crew member, my only ally gives me some kind of reassuring look, like he believes me. Then he heads out, and I follow suit. This place is like “The Truman Show” but worse, because at least Truman got to go about his day thinking everything was perfect, while I’ve just found out this place is everything but.
I’m still single four days later – shocker – but there’ll be a ceremony soon, and with there being too many girls, the boys are likely going to choose, and the last woman standing will get her freedom back. I haven’t made any effort to flirt or win favours, because I want out. There’s no other way to leave. I tried playing the mental-health card, but we get an extortionate fine if we walk out. Plus, they’ve already aired my arrival – leaving of my own accord would only make the backlash worse when I got home. They don’t tell us anything around here, but the psychiatrist, whose motives are frankly dubious, implied I shouldn’t expect a warm welcome.
Gavin crawled back into bed with Jazz after grovelling enough, saying he was tested and failed, but he’s realised what he was giving up and he won’t make that mistake again. I should be mad at him, but I know he’s doing what he has to do to keep up appearances. It’s not like our kiss meant anything anyway. It was just nice. Comforting. Something that felt real in this manufactured fishbowl, but nothing more. I’ve barely been here for as long as he has, and already, I’d kill for a touch of reality again. How poetic.
No one talks about it, but I can tell I’m not the only one whose expectations haven’t been met when it comes to taking part in this stupid programme. It’s not a dating show like we were told; it’s a survival show about sex.
We’re heading off to today’s challenge. Something to do with a slalom where you’re asked questions and then you have to choose either blue (true) or red (false) flags in a split second. I’m excited to ski and to be outside, but I’m going to be set up to look bad and given tough questions they can turn into tonight’s argument, exactly like yesterday’s challenge. I’m exhausted already and it hasn’t even started.
We queue up to get on the ski lift, everyone else standing in their couples while I stand alone. Even though it’ll only be five minutes, I’m looking forward to having a moment to myself on the way up. Pete, the only person who’s been on my side from day one, is ahead of me with his partner. But as they go to stand in position for the chair coming around on the conveyor belt, he struggles with his skis, and his partner gets on without him before realising he isn’t with her. He doesn’t panic like she did though. Instead, he quietly gets into position beside me and waits for the next chair. He pulls the lap bar down and then immediately fumbles inside his coat before reaching over to me, unzipping my coat too and turning my mic pack off.
“Are you crazy? They’ll kill us!” I turn back, looking for the producers, who missed a few chairs and are only now getting onto the ski lift themselves.
“Doesn’t matter. My days are numbered anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know I’m getting zero airtime. Hilary and I barely talk, let alone fight or do anything worth filming, and everyone else is playing the ‘deeply in love’ angle, so I’m not gonna get a look in. My producer’s completely given up on me.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. You don’t want this to be over?”
“Oh, absolutely, but I need to be someone when I leave here more. And before you say it, I’m not on some ego trip. I need the opportunities that come after this. My mum…” He looks away, considering his words. “She lost her job last year after getting badly hurt in a car accident, and she’ll lose her house soon too because she doesn’t have anything left to pay the mortgage with. Benefits only get her so far. I barely have enough to make a dent, but I’ve given every penny I can. I’ve taken on two more shitty jobs around my other one, and I’m living on potatoes and beans at this point. I’ve got a following online, but I was never smart enough to monetise it properly, and I don’t have the time to keep up with it anymore. But with this show, landing a decent manager, that could change our lives. I need this. I need to stay.”
Oh, Pete.My heart aches for him, and for his mum. “What can I do to help?”
“I wanted to see if you’d like to form an alliance. Fake this with me, and when we get out of here, we’ll fizzle out. No drama. Just go back to our own lives.”
He can’t be serious. “Why me? Why not Hilary?”
“Because you deserve a chance. They set you up because they needed a villain, and it was never going to be one of the OGs.”
I realise he’s right, but he might be the only one who sees it that way.
“Frankenbites. That’s what they call them, by the way, when they stick different audio clips together to make it sound like one sentence. You can always tell, because they’ll either cut to something or someone else or there’ll be the slightest shift in pitch or tone. They can edit a lot, but not everything.”
I knew I didn’t say those things! But over the past few days I’ve doubted myself, assuming I must have said them at some point during our date and not paid it any mind because of everything going on.
“How do you know that?”
“I did a lot of research before I came in. So when you said you didn’t say that, I thought back to the clip and remembered I never saw the words leaving your mouth.”
How many people out there are sharp enough to come to that conclusion on their own or savvy enough to know the industry tricks? Because I sure as hell didn’t know they could do that before now.
I deliberate over his offer for a moment. I want to go home. But I also don’t want to be known as the bitch they’ve already portrayed me as. And now I want to help Pete and his mum. I can’t let him go home and struggle knowing I could have at least tried to help.
“I’m in.”
Relief and gratitude wash over him. We’re halfway up the mountain, and I’m aware we don’t have long left to talk privately.
“So what’s the plan?”
He huffs out a short breath, getting to work. “Depending on what other shit they’ve got up their sleeve for the next couple of days, I’ll either pull you for a chat and lay on the old charm, or if there’s some kind of challenge, I’ll make a move.”
“What if there’s a ceremony? They won’t let you pick me – why would they? They can easily get rid of me now they’ve used me to stir up some drama.”
“Then I’ll tell them I’m picking Hilary, and when the cameras roll, I’ll pick you. They won’t want to pass up the footage of everyone losing their minds, which they will.”
“And if it works?”
“Then we keep looking at each other like we love each other and roll with the punches. And there’ll be plenty. The closer we seem, the harder they’ll try to split us up, and we have to give them what they want, let them think they’re winning. All the while we’ve got the ace up our sleeve.”
Looks like I’m going to play poker after all.
It worked. It’s been two weeks, and we have everyone fooled. We’ve snuck around pretending we’re trying not to get caught, we’ve fought and I’ve cried, the girls pretending they care when I know they only want to share the airtime. We’ve put the covers over our heads in bed and kissed our hands and sighed. We spent our date in the hot tub making it look like we were doing exactly what someone would expect two people in love to do in a hot tub. Pete’s a good kisser, and he’s attractive or else he wouldn’t be here, but there are no fireworks. It might seem like I’m always grinding on him, but we don’t even let our laps touch, and I doubt his body would respond if they did. He’s never tried anything on, and neither have I with him. We hold hands in bed sometimes to check in after having a row for show, but he’s the perfect gentleman. It’s honestly a shame I don’t like him as more than a friend.
Even though that’s all going to plan, the producers are still toying with all of us. The games are a head-fuck. They’re making up our sleep schedules to suit the shoot needs, and to use our delirium to make us more erratic and vulnerable. (Fun fact: sleep deprivation is the most effective form of torture. It’s not always quick, but it gets everyone in the end.) But the thing that’s really getting to me? They’re messing with the food.
Myfood.
I’m not fussy. I’m not picky. I’m not even vegan. But they seem to struggle to provide anything vaguely healthy. I’m all up for the occasional cheat day, but I need fresh food, a salad, some fruit – anything that isn’t hot dogs or pizza or deep-fried chicken. Even the eggs we can have at breakfast come pre-beaten in some kind of milk carton.
I’ve asked so many times, but nothing’s being done about it, and I’m hungry more often than I’m not, especially with all the long days and skiing we’re doing. I know I’m not eating enough, but I’ve worked so hard to get myself in shape, sort out my gut health, regulate my hormones, and keep my skin clear – not to mention how sick the crap they’re either cooking for us or providing for us to cook ourselves makes me feel – and I can’t force myself to eat any more than I have to.
Desperate and hopeful, I head into the pantry for breakfast to see if my requests have finally been granted. No changes on the shelves, but the fridge is where I’ll find what I’m looking for if it’s there. I open it up and disappointment finally breaks me. I close the fridge and collapse against it in silent tears.
One rogue carrot, one slice of apple, a wilting bag of spinach. That’s all I want at this point, and they can’t even provide that. I’m so hungry.
My sobs are interrupted by a voice in the wall. “Everything all right, Gemma?”
“There’s nothing to eat.” My words sound as weak as I feel.
“Sorry, we seem to be having some issues with your mic. Can you speak up so we can hear you?”
I repeat my words louder. “There’s nothing to eat.”
“What’s wrong with the food?”
“It’s all processed junk.”
“Yeah, sorry, we can’t hear you over here. Hang on… Okay, can you say that again? Maybe shout a bit so we can hear you through the room mics. Yours has stopped working.”
“It’s all processed junk!” I project my voice.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s nothing?—”
“Louder, please. Maybe stand up – we’ll be able to hear you a bit better then.”
I get up with a glimmer of hope that maybe this time they’ll listen to me. “There’s nothing here that isn’t in a packet or hasn’t been pumped with sugar, or all of the above! I’ve asked so many times. I don’t understand why you’re denying us fresh food. It’s not fair!”
“And what would you like to eat?”
They’re listening.My brain whirrs with hope. Don’t ask for too much, or else it won’t happen. “Vegetables. I just want vegetables, please.” I panic. What if they only give me spring onions and garlic to screw with me even more like the pedants they are? “Peppers, carrots, corn. Things like that,” I specify.
“Is that all?”
I nod. “Yes, please.”
“We’ll see what we can do.”
Do I have “kidnap me” stamped on my forehead or something? Because I seem to be making a habit of getting held captive in ski chalets.
Us girls have been separated from the boys for the past three days and forced to socialise with a new batch of poor souls who fell for the same schtick we all did about this being a life-changing opportunity. We’ve just been played a montage of the antics each of our partners back at the main lodge have been up to, and while real me doesn’t give a damn that Pete’s been speaking to other girls in my absence, fake me needs to make this my entire personality.
Cue the waterworks.
My game plan has been to stay true to Pete while I’m here in this new lodge, but I’ve decided what my heartbroken alter ego would do is get even.
Three days later, the powers that be tell us we’re finally heading back tonight. About bloody time. The catch, because there always is one, is that we’re at risk of being sent home if we’re left single. People keep asking me if I’m going to pick one of the new guys to go back with, and though I’ve pretended to hum and haw about it, I’m obviously going to return on my own, because I know Pete will stick to our plan. And that’s what I tell my two-faced bitch of a producer, Bethany, when she asks me later that day. I make up some rubbish about “forgiving him” and “having hope”, and I assume that’ll be the end of it. But later that night, I discover it’s not.
We’re all dressed up and ready to get taken to the bottom of the mountain. Once there, we’ll be put into a gondola either alone or with our new man, and we’ll ride it to the top, where the boys will be waiting to reveal if they’ve done the same.
Before we leave, Bethany pulls me to one side.
“Babe.”
I hate it when she calls me “babe”.
She checks over her shoulder and then turns back to me, talking low. “You have to pick someone to go up with.”
“But I don’t want to. Pete?—”
“Pete’s picked someone.” She whips her head behind her again. “Shit, I didn’t tell you that. But you need to pick someone.”
Why would he do that? Is he giving me an out? Maybe letting me go home single and scorned to get public sympathy? But why would he want to be seen as the bad guy? Unless he’s managed to form a real connection with somebody and that reputation is worth it… But we’re not in the final yet. That was the goal: get to the final. Or maybe he’s hoping I’ll pick someone too, give us some drama to work with, and then we’ll reconnect by the end of the week and get to the final together. Who knows what he’s thinking? But I trust him to have thought this through.
“Fine. I’ll take Jim.”
I’ve gotten to know him a little this week. Nothing going on there, but he’s nice enough and seems genuinely pleased to be here, so I’ll bring him back with me and give him a chance to find someone else.
We’re the last ones to go up. Jim, ecstatic to have been picked, thanks me as the doors close on us. My heart thumps as we ride up, and I brace myself for the fake fallout Pete and I are about to have. The radio they left in the gondola for us tells us to get ready as we approach the top, so we stand beside one another, and I slip my hand inside the crook of Jim’s arm.
Here we go.
The doors open, and it takes me a second to get my bearings. I scan the row of couples behind the smarmy host – some new, some reunited – then my eyes spot Pete. Standing alone.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I let go of Jim and rush over to Pete. No, no, no. I’ve ruined his whole plan. Everything he was going to do for his mum. His life. Because I was stupid enough to believe Bethany. Again.
“Cut!” one of the directors shouts into a megaphone from the gazebo they’ve set up to the side, with screens and chairs for the crew. He picks up a radio to speak into, and the host presses a finger to his ears.
“Gemma, go stand back with Jim, please. Don’t run over to Pete. There’s a good girl,” the host orders.
I bloody hate this guy.
I look over to where he is, noticing Bethany standing by his side. Smirking. I want to scream and shout and tell them I was tricked, but I know making Bethany look bad will only worsen my situation when I get back to the main lodge. And the cameras are still rolling – they could capture my meltdown and use it however they please.
I take a few breaths, short and sharp, as I stare her down. Then I set my jaw, lift my head, and stride back over to Jim, carefully wiping away the tear that rolled down my cheek. They force me to play out the scene as if I’m unaffected, but rage radiates from every fibre of my being, and I know it shows.
Later, once the ceremony is over, they allow me a moment alone with Pete in the bedroom as he packs his bags – only because Pete seems to have some kind of dirt on his producer, who hasn’t been able to say no to him since week three. I wrap my arms around his neck and sob into his chest. “I’m so sorry,” I say over and over, but he reassures me he’ll be okay.
He pulls away to look at me, cradling my face. “Thank you – for everything.” He kisses me on the head and then pulls me back into his arms. “I’ll see you on the outside.”
A few days later, due to mental exhaustion, malnourishment, and aggressive period cramps, I pass out while on a date. Halfway down a ski run. And it’s going to be used as tomorrow’s episode’s big drama. And how do I know that? Because the first thing I see when I come to is a camera in my face. Not a doctor. Not one of the ski instructors. A camera.
They eventually get a doctor to me, making sure to film the panic on the faces of the crew crowding around me, asking deliberately pointed questions about my eating habits and my refusal to eat what they’re giving us. I’m sent home on medical grounds, my entire reputation as a health-and-fitness content creator ruined.
But I’m free.
Or so I thought. Little did I know, life outside the lodge would be so much worse.