HERE’S SOMETHING I DIDN’T KNOW before: reality television isn’t actually real. I mean, it is in the sense that there are actual people speaking and moving, as opposed to artificially intelligent human-like robots that will eventually become self-aware and kill us all.
Instead of castle-walking in the middle of the night, I’ve been watching the Terminator series. The first one is still the best.
But my point is, Matched and its ilk aren’t genuine. The scenes are staged, the shots planned, and “takes” are done multiple times. A few minutes on film could take a few hours of real-life time to shoot.
This is the fourth time we’ve gone through my “riding up to the castle on horseback” scene, and we haven’t even gotten to the front of the castle yet. Something to do with lighting and shadows or whatever the hell. The horse is now cranky and I’m bored.
While the director and Vanessa and the cameraman go over the next shot, I glance toward the hill, thinking about the funny little blusher at the top of it. The way she peeked out from behind the tree, then tried to hide as if I’d caught her doing something dirty.
I could show her what dirty really looks like.
The thought makes me chuckle, imagining the pretty pink her cheeks would turn if she heard what was running through my head. I wonder if her arse would turn the same sweet shade after a good, warm spanking?
I bet it would.
I shift in the saddle, getting hard at the prospect.
Lady Sarah Von Titebottum. A cute, odd bird with—from what I could tell in her well-fitted but drab black dress—a very fitting name. Pretty face, too: big, dark, long-lashed eyes that sparkled behind those prim glasses and a lush mouth made for moaning.
I’ve known girls like her before. The aristocracy is actually a very small group, and some of the families are all about keeping their offspring—particularly their female offspring—sheltered from the rest of the world. Hidden away in private, all-girl academies where they interact with only their own. It makes for reserved, intelligent, but generally plain and tediously proper young ladies.
Although she’s obviously the quiet type, Sarah held her own with me. She was clever, charming in a bashful way—different. People are so disappointingly predictable that being surprised by that shy slip of a girl feels almost . . . tantalizing.
“Just like that, Prince Henry,” the director calls. “That smile right there—that’s what we’ve been looking for. Whatever put that look on your face, keep thinking about it.”
Well, that’s not going to be difficult.
Unlike the show itself, the host of Matched is the genuine article. She’s authentically crackers. As mad as a box of frogs.
She’s Emily Rasputin, an American stage actress who was known as the Queen of Broadway in her prime. A notorious cocaine addiction, a hit-and-run scandal, and a contemptuous divorce in the nineties knocked her off her throne. But she reappeared a few years back as the host of television’s newest, hottest reality show. Her suspenseful hosting skills and the bold, prying questions she poses to the contestants have become as big of a draw as the show itself.
And everyone loves a comeback story. I should know.
But she’s a full-on nutter—a method hostess. She insists on doing only one take per scene and refuses to interact with anyone, unless it’s on film. Real emotion and reaction, according to Vanessa, is the hardest to capture, and Miss Rasputin thrives on it.
When I, fucking finally, make it up to the courtyard of the castle, where twenty ladies are waiting, the cameras don’t stop rolling. There are four . . . no, five cameramen so they can capture every angle and every interaction. They move between us like ghosts through walls, pausing and zooming in to catch something interesting when they find it.
But I ignore the cameras and instead focus on the expression of the lovely ladies all around me, smiling and adoring. Confidence that was once so familiar and has been sorely missing these last months surges back in my chest. This is the life I’m used to. And I think doing this show may turn out to be the best decision I’ve ever made.
“Here ye, here ye,” Emily calls into her microphone, wearing a shiny long gold coat, almost matching blond hair, and big hoop earrings that could fit around a wrist. “I present to you, ladies of Wessco, His Royal Highness, Prince Henry! He comes in search of true love and to make that true love queen of his heart and queen of his country.”
Emily lifts up her hand, clutching a group of necklaces with charms dangling from each one. “At the end of this night, Prince Henry will place a glass slipper charm on the pillow of each lady he chooses to remain here at Anthorp Castle. Only ten of you will be chosen. Then, each night after, one lady will leave until His Royal Highness bestows the diamond tiara on the one who will be his royal bride.” She looks straight into the camera. “Welcome, ladies and our audience at home, to Matched—Royal Edition!”
Ding!
The first event of the show is speed dating. Before the cameras started rolling again, Vanessa told us to “be ourselves,” whatever that may be. To not hold back—that any conversation that doesn’t work for the show or isn’t fit for television can be fixed in the editing room later. I’m sitting at a table with a black-curtained partition across the middle. The curtain lifts and I get two minutes with each lady to see if, as Emily put it, we have an “instant connection.” Some of the girls I already know—one or two I’ve already screwed, not that I wouldn’t mind a repeat. But for the moment, I sip my scotch and enjoy the electricity that sparks in my veins from the excitement and the fun that practically lights up the whole damn castle.
Ding!
And the first lady up is . . . the Duchess of Perth, Laura Benningson. I’ve known Laura for years; she’s beautiful, with thick light-brown hair and sparkly light-blue eyes.
She was engaged to Mario Vitrolli, a professional race car driver and a good man, up until last year when he was tragically killed in an accident on the track. Laura was pregnant at the time and lost the baby a few weeks after Mario’s death, though thankfully, that part was kept out of the papers.
I lean over the table and kiss her cheek. “How are you, dove?”
She gives me a smile still tinged with sadness. “I’m all right. This is a bit crazy, though, isn’t it? I don’t know how they plan to address my obvious non-virginity. Everyone we know knows about the miscarriage.”
“According to the producer, that’s the magic of reality television. A bit of creative editing and they can make any reality they want. If it makes you feel any better, I’m not a virgin either. They were shocked when I told them. Just shocked.”
Laura laughs, and it feels good to make someone really laugh for a change.
“Anyway, you can relax, Henry, I’m not vying for the throne—I think I’d make a terrible queen. I’m too lazy and self-absorbed.”
“And too honest.”
“Exactly.” She sighs. “But, when they approached me, I just felt like it was time, you know. To try to move forward. Maybe have some fun. It’s a strange thing to do, but I decided to give it a try.”
I put my hand over hers. “I’m glad you did.”
She squeezes back. “So am I, now.”
Laura’s a yes.
Ding!
Lady Cordelia Ominsmitch. She’s the daughter of an earl, and while she’s known in my circles as a serious partier, she maintains a stellar reputation to the outside world. And she’s drop-dead gorgeous. Big blue eyes, bouncy hair, and even bouncier tits. My type of girl.
As soon as the curtain lifts, she gets right to it.
“We’ve never met, Your Highness, but we could be good together. Hot together. I’m everything you need in a wife and a queen. I have the looks, the education, the pedigree, and the temperament. I’m also a virgin.” She winks. “Tight as a drum. Until I marry, I’ve promised myself and the Lord to only do anal.”
I choke on my drink.
Definitely a yes.
Ding!
Jane Plutorch. Cousin to a duke and heiress to a fortune built on wart cream—Wart Away is the official name, I think. She’s also seriously Goth. Black lipstick, black hair, ivory skin, piercings, and ink up and down her arms.
“I hate my family,” she says without any inflection at all. “And they hate me. They made me come here, mostly because they didn’t want to look at me. I only agreed because I thought it’d be fab to live in a castle. Like a vampire.”
“I can respect that,” I say. “And you have great taste in tattoos.”
She glances at her arms, and it’s as if it takes all her energy just to keep breathing.
“Thanks.”
She’s a yes.
Ding!
Lady Elizabeth Figgles. Her father’s a viscount and a member of Parliament, and she’s also Sam Berkinshire’s—an old schoolmate and one of my dearest friends—girlfriend.
“Elizabeth? What the hell are you doing here? Where’s Sam?”
“Sam can go fucking die.” She looks right at the camera. “Are you getting this? You can go fucking die, Sam! I hope your prick gets caught in a wood chipper, you cheating bastard!”
“He cheated on you? Sam?”
Sam’s a great guy. The kind of guy even really good guys want to be more like. He makes Abraham Lincoln look like a lying shit.
“Your face right now, that’s exactly how I looked when I found out—but a hell of a lot angrier. I found receipts, knickers that weren’t mine, rubbers. Faithless, worthless son of a bitch.”
She bangs the table and her nails are long enough to double as claws.
“Now I want Sam to see what it feels like. So I’m going to fuck you. On television. A lot. Hopefully live. You’d better rest up, Henry. I brought lube—a whole bucket of it.”
Wow.
Ding!
Penelope Von Titebottum. Her mother’s a reclusive countess, but Penny is pleasant, fun, attractive. And her sister is . . . interesting.
“Hello, Henry, how’ve you been?”
“I’m good, Penelope. You look well.”
She bounces in her seat and smooths her hair. “Thank you! I’m just so excited to be here. We’re going to have so much fun.”
“That’s the plan.”
“And I can’t believe we’re going to be on television! All over the world. It’s amazing.”
“I saw Sarah earlier. We said hello.”
“Oh good. She didn’t want to come at first, but I’m glad she did. We have to get her out of her shell. Not too much, just enough to show her a good time, right?”
I nod. “Count me in.”
Penelope stays.
And that means Sarah does too.
Ding!
Princess Alpacca, pronounced like the animal, first in line to the throne of Alieya Island, a small nation below the south of France. The Queen invited her to Wessco after an attempted coup forced her family into exile last year. She doesn’t speak English and I don’t know a word of Aliesh. This is going to be a challenge.
Guermo, her translator, glares at me like I’m the bubonic plague in human form—with a mixture of hatred, disgust, and just a touch of fear.
She speaks in Aliesh, looking at me.
And Guermo translates. “She says she thinks you are very ugly.”
Princess Alpacca nods vigorously.
She’s pretty in a cute kind of way. Wild curly hair, round hazel eyes, a tiny bulbous nose, and full cheeks.
“She says she doesn’t like you or your stupid country,” Guermo informs me.
Another nod and a blank but eager smile.
“She says she would rather throw herself off the rocks to her death in the waves and be devoured by the fish than be your queen.”
I look him in the face. “She barely said anything.”
He shrugs. “She says it with her eyes. I know these things. If you weren’t so stupid you would know too.”
More nodding.
“Fantastic.”
She says something to Guermo in Aliesh, then he says something back—harshly and disapproving. And now, they’re arguing.
But they can stay.
Guermo is obviously in love with Alpacca and she clearly has no idea. My presence will force him to admit his feelings . . . but does she return his infatuation? It’ll be like living in a Latin soap opera—dramatic, passionate, and over the top. I have to see how it ends.
Ding!
Lady Libadocious Loutenhiemer. Track and Field Olympian in the last two games. The youngest Wessconian to ever win a gold medal, cousin of a marquess.
“You can call me Libby. Or Libs. Lulu. Or LL—I pretty much answer to anything.”
She’s in amazing shape—everything tight and toned, but still definitely feminine. Wavy blond hair frames an attractive face with high cheekbones and great eyes.
“In my spare time, I like biking, swimming, running, fucking . . .”
I smirk. “What a coincidence—those are all my favorite hobbies too.”
Oh, yes.
Ding!
And so it goes. Some are bubbly and upbeat, some more ambitious and dramatic, but I enjoy meeting and chatting with all of them. It’s difficult to make cuts, but the show must go on. After the dating game, Vanessa hands me a map of the castle, marking the rooms where each of the ladies is staying.
I do my bit and leave the glass-slipper charms on the pillows of the girls I’ve chosen. Then I exit filming as the cameras continue to roll, capturing the reactions. Screams of joy and disappointment race down the halls of the stone castle. And then there were ten.