Chapter Two
New rumors have surfaced about Love Shack’s producers. Previous contestants anonymously report that they were emotionally manipulated, trapped in interview rooms, and severely underfed. Thinking of applying for the hit show? Think again.
—“A Love Shack or a House of Horrors?,” LitFeed, six months ago
The cameras stay outside with Roland, so I have a few feet of breathing room on my way into the mansion (or rather, gasping room, thanks to my boa constrictor of a dress).
Once I catch my breath, I lose it all over again at the sight of the palatial foyer.
To my right, a winding staircase curves up to a second floor.
A crystal chandelier dangles above me, fracturing the spotlights into glimmers across the stucco walls.
With a glance at the line of cameras to my left, I walk across the entryway to the sitting room ahead.
Under the high ceiling is utter chaos. Potted plants and velvet beanbag chairs have been shoved into corners, and blankets are hung up over the windows to block all light except the LEDs.
Long folding tables line the room, stacks of paper spilling off the ends and harassed-looking producers standing behind them.
In the middle of everything is a U-shaped couch with nineteen elegant women perched atop it and one open spot left for me.
I step forward, and something crunches under my shoe.
A producer in a beanie shouts, “Where’s the deck? Shit, I lost it!”
My dress pinches me in the stomach as I bend down to pick up the piece of paper.
Headshots litter the page, twenty bright smiles sparkling at me through the wrinkled printer paper.
It takes a second to find myself in the corner, given that I look more like a model for teeth whitening than myself.
A few photos, including mine, are circled in red pen.
Under my disembodied head are the words: “Georgia, 27, Music Journalist.”
I almost burst out laughing. It could be a child’s haiku of my life.
Not inaccurate, but certainly not the full picture.
When the show airs, these words will follow my face around like a mugshot placard.
In a more accurate world, it would also list my crime: “Georgia, 27, Here to Topple Love Shack’s Reality TV Empire. ”
This photo was taken when I still could have backed out, told Serena that I couldn’t go along with her plan, claimed there was some reason I couldn’t leave my life for six weeks—a more compelling reason, that is, than cleaning Presley’s litter box and putting out the trash on Wednesdays.
Certainly she couldn’t go on the show. She had a “life” to attend to.
“Come on, Georgia,” Serena had wheedled, “you’re perfect for the show. You look like you were birthed into a Billabong ad.”
I spit out my seltzer but took the compliment and ultimately agreed to go undercover. When I was cast, I signed my life away via Love Shack’s nondisclosure contract. Though when they mentioned they weren’t liable for death, I hadn’t expected suffocation by formalwear.
“Hey, what are you doing with that?” The beanie producer snatches the paper out of my hand and lumbers away. I scowl at his retreating back, then take stock of the couch.
It seems to be divided into two distinct groups: The women on the left sit with their backs arched and drinks balanced carefully in their hands.
The women on the right are laughing uncontrollably, their drinks in danger of spilling onto the tangerine carpet.
A woman with curly red hair scooches over to make room for me between herself and a pretty, dimpled woman whose wheelchair is pressed up against the end of the couch.
“Hi, I’m Brooklyn. Brooklyn Levy, not that last names seem to matter around here.” She rolls her eyes as she leans against the back of her wheelchair and fluffs up her curly hair—blond to her shoulders, stylishly brown at the roots.
“I’m Georgia.” I return her smile. “Just Georgia.”
The redheaded woman on my other side looks older than the rest of us, probably in her mid-thirties. Practically geriatric by Love Shack standards, at least when the lead is a man. “Hi, Just Georgia, I’m Olie,” she says, sticking out her hand, “like ravioli.”
She has a deep voice and gives off a whiff of caricature. Her curly hair reaches up and out in all directions, and her eyes are so heavily made up I can’t tell if they’re naturally such a deep green or if it’s just the reflection of her eyeshadow.
Olie-Ravioli gulps the last of her champagne, then tosses her glass to the ground. My shock must show because she rolls her eyes and mutters, “Plastic … Like they’d give us anything breakable.”
“I guess the only thing that’ll be breaking around here is hearts,” Brooklyn says.
Olie barks a laugh, and I tune out their conversation to focus on the producers huddled at the other side of the room, watching us intently. They point, scribble on clipboards, but don’t engage: scientists examining lab rats.
There’s no sign yet of Lainey Williams, Love Shack’s executive producer and the key to the allegations I’m here to investigate.
Right now, she’s probably tucked in a dark room, listening to the feeds from twenty women’s body mics.
I wonder if she can hear how fast my heart is beating, if she can tell I’m here for her.
Brooklyn pokes me, trying to draw me back into their conversation. “Who do you think the host is?” she whispers, eyebrows wiggling. “I heard a rumor they got Oprah. God, imagine lounging by the pool with Oprah. I’d lose my shit. You get a husband! You get a husband!”
“One of you gets a husband!” The shout comes from the doorway, making us all jump.
A Viking-esque producer with a deep Scottish brogue and thick rust-red facial hair walks in.
I have to tip my head to see his face—he must be at least six-five.
“Or at least, that’s the idea. Now Roland’s going to walk through that door, right there”—he points dramatically to the entryway—“and it’ll be the best thing you’ve ever seen.
The anticipation has been mounting since you met him outside, tensions are running high, hearts are pounding!
” he bellows, then looks down at us and softens his voice.
“I’m Norbert, by the way. Does anyone need a refill? ”
I glance around. My plastic glass is almost full while everyone else’s is empty. I fake a sip, but don’t let any liquid past my lips. I can’t afford to get wasted tonight.
Norbert holds a hand to his earpiece and motions for silence.
“This is it, ladies. Good luck!” He retreats to the hallway, leaving us with a few camera operators and our pooling sweat.
We hear the footsteps of our future husband before we see him. The tapping of his shoes on the polished wood floors quiets when he gets to the carpet. He rounds the corner, and the hushed gasps turn to laughter as we see that it’s not Roland, but someone else.
Red-brown hair, tan skin, adjusting his cuff links like he just stepped out of a motorcycle photo shoot in the desert. Cowboy boots instead of Oxfords like Roland was wearing.
My eyes zero in on his face and something flickers in my stomach.
He is certainly not Oprah.
“Ladies,” he says smoothly, the faintest hint of a Southern drawl swirling in the dregs of the word. “Nice to meet y’all.”
He looks around the room, taking us all in. His eyes land on me, and when he blinks, I feel it as deep as a bass drum pounding through a crowded room.
“I’m Rhett,” he says quietly, eyes locked with mine. The flicker in my stomach turns into a pulsing knot. “Rhett Auburn. And I’ll be your host this season.”
“He was the lead two years ago!” Brooklyn whispers as someone else gasps, “Have you heard his new album?”
Rhett’s eyes move on, passing over Brooklyn and Olie, and he gives the cameras a wink.
The other women melt, but I’m still sitting up straight as the memory hits me with full force.
A dark club, bodies pressed in on all sides, and the band dared everyone to kiss a stranger. It was a blur. The club, the music, the moment in the early, early morning when we fell into my bed.
Now, my eyes find his beneath the too-hot TV lights. The green flecks in his irises sparkle and my stomach somersaults. He clasps his hands together and smiles at the sea of women hanging onto his every word, but he directs the next line right to me.
“Welcome to the Love Shack.”
Rhett’s speech might be metaphor-stuffed clichés about everlasting love, or maybe he’s telling us that Love Shack has adopted an elimination-by-death policy. I have no clue. My head is buzzing too fast, my heart slamming against my ribs, and all I can think is He shouldn’t be here.
Roland finally enters the sitting room, looking far too shiny to be legal, but I can’t focus on anything he says.
It’s nothing that hasn’t been said on previous seasons: He wants a wife, someone to share his life with, family is everything to him, and …
I think I’m going to die in this overheated room.
When the cameras finally cut, I allow myself a single glance at the spot in the corner where Rhett had been standing, but he’s vanished.
Brooklyn pokes my arm, peering carefully at me. “You okay? Want some?” She holds out her champagne glass, and I take it, slosh the entire thing back, then clutch my stomach.
“Oh no,” I mutter.
“What—what’s wrong?” she asks.
“She’s probably just lovestruck,” Olie says sagely. She reaches around Brooklyn and thumps me so hard on the back that my teeth smash together. I stumble to my feet, the room spinning around me.
“I think I’m going to be sick.” I run from the room as fast as my heels will allow. Once I’m in the hall, I careen into the nearest bathroom, bolt the door behind me, then sink to the floor, my eyes straying to the ceiling corners to see if my breakdown is being filmed.
No cameras, but for some reason, a defibrillator next to the door. Do hearts often stop in this mansion? Or do they simply break, like Brooklyn said?