Chapter Thirty-Three
A month later
‘Hello, contestants! Welcome to Celebrity Island Survivor!’ Dan, one of the pair of hosts who helmed the show, yodelled in the most cheerful voice possible.
‘Blue Team, looking great in those bandannas!’ chimed in Pip, Dan’s brother, who was the other host. ‘Love what you’ve done with them!’
Dan and Pip, barely in their early thirties, were unquestionably the most successful TV presenters in the country. Non-identical fraternal twins, they had been infant prodigies, doing stand-up comedy as a double act, and now regularly presented two of the country’s most famous live TV programmes as well as hosting their own chat show. Dan was straight, and a well-known man about town, while Pip was gay and happily married. They had an answer for everything and had the confidence of siblings who knew each other perfectly: nothing could faze them.
Caroline simply could not believe that she was standing here, in a group of C-list celebrities, taking part in a ritual that she had watched year after year, never missing an episode. The smiling faces of Dan and Pip were so familiar to her that they might have been part of her family. She looked down at herself, wearing the blue T-shirt with the show’s logo on it, and shook her head momentarily in disbelief. Since meeting Lexy, her life had progressed in leaps and bounds so dizzying that it was as if she were wearing rocket-propelled shoes; but this was by far the highest jump into the stratosphere, up where the air was rarefied, even more dizzying than seducing Frank.
That, after all, had been a private triumph. This was a public one. And by now, Caroline had learned how much she loved publicity.
The odds of her becoming a cast member had been hugely stacked against her. For the last couple of weeks, she had kept telling herself that it would never happen, in order to protect herself against the sick, crippling disappointment that she knew would overcome her when she sat on her sofa watching the opening credits of Celebrity Island Survivor, rather than being in them. It had been down to the wire, almost an overnight decision. When another, much more famous contestant dropped out at the last minute, Caroline had had barely a day’s notice that she, one of the backups, was being summoned to take her place.
She had burst into tears when the call had come, sobbed aloud, been unable to utter an actual word for a couple of minutes. Thank God it had not been a producer but her TV agent ringing her with the news, almost as excited as she was, though less teary: he had emphasized from the start that though it was amazing that Caroline was considered newsworthy enough to even be considered as a contestant, nothing was certain, even if she passed the psychological tests.
Those tests! The psychologists had given nothing away, had been friendly but perfectly neutral even when asking the most personal of questions about her family, her upbringing, her ambitions, her sex life. Caroline hadn’t even been sure if she was supposed to answer everything they asked. She had begun to wonder whether this itself was a test. Were they checking to see if she would overshare so much that it meant she had no boundaries, did not have enough self-control to stick it out in the stress of the jungle island environment?
So she had started to politely demur at the most invasive questions, saying she preferred not to answer them, and had noticed that they did not press her further. She hadn’t been able to tell how well she’d done, but she had trusted her instincts, which, after all, had guided her through her tortuous journey of writing Lexy’s book while, at the same time, successfully making herself over and undermining Lexy with her husband.
And clearly, once again, those instincts had served Caroline well. She had been told that she was to keep herself available, making sure she was contactable at all times, her phone charged and accessible. Apparently the majority of the drop-outs happened at the last minute, as the full reality of the deprivation and humiliation for which they had signed up started to dawn on the more pampered and neurotic celebrities.
Ever since her agent had first informed her she was being considered for the show, Caroline had been on the strictest of lockdown diets, just in case. She had dropped several pounds, enabling her to get into a one-piece swimsuit with sexy cutaways and a 50s-style bikini that showcased her breasts very successfully, while the high bottom held in her stomach. No matter how slim she was, she knew that if she did get picked for the show, she would be cast with glamour models and reality stars in string bikinis, whose fake boobs would not shrink as the shortage of rations caused them to lose weight. If she tried to compete with those women in the skimpy clothing stakes, she would look ridiculous. Better to wear flattering outfits, rather than make a laughing stock of herself by looking too overtly sexy.
Which had been harder, Caroline wondered now as she smiled for the cameras, her Team Blue bandanna tying back her hair in a twisted hairband which she had practised endlessly that morning so that she could manage the style without a mirror, as she would have no access to one on Survivor Island. Had it been picking out those swimsuits, knowing that almost the entire nation would see her figure flaws in a matter of days? Or breaking the news to Frank that she was going to compete in a reality show that would bring her exactly the kind of press attention he had so disliked Lexy chasing?
Both had been awful. Shopping for swimwear was bad enough without knowing that you were going to be on national TV wearing it, filmed from all angles. And Frank had been just as upset and distressed as she had anticipated; angry, too, feeling that Caroline had misled him. She had always presented herself as fame-shy, a victim of the paparazzi rather than complicit with them. He felt betrayed, and no matter how much she pleaded that this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance for her to build her writing career, get herself known to the general public, Frank wouldn’t see her point of view. He had been through this once already, he said. He didn’t know if he could do it again.
Of course, Frank didn’t realize that Caroline had known about the possibility for a fortnight, as she had hidden that information from him. If she didn’t pass the tests, or if after meeting her, the producers didn’t think she was attractive or charismatic or interesting enough for the show, why throw a spanner into the works for nothing? Frank had no idea about the psych tests or the pre-screening process. It was easy for her to pretend that it had all happened in a whirl at the last moment: one swift interview, the approval from on high and the business class, open return ticket booked for Australia, where Celebrity Island Survivor was shot. That she had been scrambling to finish Bad Girl, working practically non-stop from morning to night, not just because the deadline was so tight, but in case she got the summons that might change her life.
Naturally, her publisher had been ecstatic at the news. This casting had catapulted Caroline to a whole new level of fame, infinitely more than they had anticipated when they signed her up. Her editor had read the book as soon as Caroline had submitted it a few days ago and sent back a list of questions and basic edits; Caroline had spent the twenty-one hours of flight time, plus the stopover in Dubai, working through them and crafting responses. The editor would organize the edits, polish up the text and turn the book around with maximum speed to capitalize on Caroline’s newsworthiness at the height of media attention for the show. Ideally, it would hit bookshops as soon as possible after her return from Australia.
I feel as if I’m playing a game of chess with real people and job opportunities, Caroline thought now. Moving them around, jumping them sideways – or wait, is it more like juggling? People keep throwing me more and more balls to keep up in the air, and I’m desperately trying not to drop any . . .
‘So we’re switching things up this year!’ Dan carolled cheerfully. ‘But that’s not a surprise, is it?’
‘It would be more of a surprise if we weren’t surprising you, right?’ Pip added, winking. ‘We’re going to draw mini-teams! You’ll be partnered up with one of your teammates for the first three days. Together, you’ll have to navigate your way to camp in pairs, complete your assigned tasks, cook, eat, sleep, go to the dunny . . . while you’re shackled to each other at the waist!’
As Dan and Pip chortled in delight, the camera crews captured the horrified reaction of the six Blue Team contestants. A runner wheeled forward a trolley on which lay three long chains with padlocks at each end. It was a surreal sight, particularly as they were still in the luxurious, landscaped gardens of the lavish five-star hotel where the show’s contestants and team stayed every year, marble steps fringed by palm trees leading down to the sparkling azure waters of the bay below. Across those waters, the contours of the sprawling private island on which the contestants battled it out could be seen in the distance; the setup was ideal.
‘Here’s the picking bag!’ Pip cried, as a runner handed him the familiar linen sack, stamped with the name of the show. ‘You all know about the picking bag, contestants! Time to find out who you’re going to spend the next three days with at very close quarters . . .’
Caroline darted glances at the other contestants as Dan and Pip chortled once again; they were all doing it, wondering who they hoped to be chained to and who they were fervently hoping to avoid. Next to Caroline was Veronica Breeze, an older woman, her hair dyed a vivid red, full-figured to the point of verging on obese. She had been a well-known television chef twenty years ago, and was camp enough to still have a small but ardent gay following. Then there was Santino dell’Aquila, also a TV chef, as handsome and fit as Veronica was out of shape; they had clearly been cast as contrasts in the hopes that Veronica, who was notoriously volatile, would lash out at her younger and much more charming rival. Beside him was Debbi Miles, one of the glamour models with whom Caroline had dreaded filming, a bleach-blonde beauty queen with genuinely pretty features so far seemingly unmarred by plastic surgery, though the same could not be said of her breasts.
The last two were St John Devizes, an elderly tennis commentator who had just been censored by the BBC, for which he worked, for making increasingly sexist comments about the appearance of women players; the show was hoping, of course, that he would stir up controversy by making salacious remarks about the pretty female contestants and unflattering ones about the others. And then there was Joe Dale, the male beefcake, a boxer who was better known for his endorsements than his success in the ring, the possessor of a face as angelic as his body was buff.
It was better than a comedy to watch the expressions on everyone’s faces as Pip drew the first name from the bag. No one wanted to be shackled to Veronica or St John, so Caroline, Debbi, Joe and Santino looked distinctly more nervous than those two; they, on the other hand, were fairly complacent, calculating that the odds of their being drawn together were comparatively small.
‘Debbi!’ Pip said gleefully, waving the tile in the air for a second. ‘Who’s going to be lucky enough to get gorgeous Debbi?’
‘Ooh, I wouldn’t say “lucky”, exactly!’ Debbi said nervously. ‘I’m really useless, me!’
Pip was fishing in the bag again.
‘It’s . . . Veronica!’ he exclaimed.
Sneaking a look sideways, Caroline saw that Veronica and Debbi’s faces were pictures of distress and frustration. It might be live television, but the giggling of the crew was audible. They were allowed a certain licence; Dan and Pip would banter with them regularly during their pieces to camera, and many of the Australians who worked on the show year after year had become minor characters in their own right.
‘Well,’ Dan said, barely suppressing his own mirth, ‘I can tell that this is going to be a cracker of a year! Shall we shackle ’em up now, Pip, or wait till we’ve drawn the lot?’
‘You will do it,’ Veronica said icily, ‘at the very last possible moment.’
‘Yes, ma’am!’ Pip said, for some reason saluting as if she were his commanding officer, which had Dan collapsing with mirth.
‘What are you doing?’ he said to his brother. ‘You look like a complete prat!’
Cheated out of being chained to Debbi, St John was now staring so hopefully at Caroline that she involuntarily leaned back a little. As with so many men who criticized women’s appearances, he was no beauty himself. Overweight, with a pot belly that strained at the buttons of his Hawaiian shirt as if he were seven months pregnant, his grey hair was so sparse that it was a miracle of nature that it produced enough dandruff to be visible on his shoulders. His rubicund face, with its gin-blossom cheeks and high colour, was silent testament to the amount of alcohol he consumed on a daily basis, and his full, rubbery mouth never quite seemed to close, his jaw perpetually sagging open to show the shiny underside of his lower lip.
Caroline’s arm brushed against Santino’s as she shifted under St John’s hopeful gaze, his gobstopper eyes bulging as he stared at her. She pulled back, mumbling an apology, but Santino smiled down at her so charmingly that the ‘sorry’ died on her lips. Calabrian by origin, with his bronzed skin, high flat cheekbones and long narrow dark eyes, he was regularly mistaken for a Native American, a resemblance heightened by the thick straight black hair he wore in a clubbed ponytail. He had moved to the UK twenty years ago, opened a series of successful restaurants and married an Englishwoman with whom he had had three children. On her death a couple of years ago from cancer, he had established a charity in her name to raise money for research, to which he would be donating his appearance fee for this show.
Caroline knew that technically, it was impossible for eyes to be black: they could only be the darkest shade of brown possible. But looking up at Santino, she found that hard to believe. His irises were indistinguishable from his pupils, sparkling like jet, and though his eyes were narrow they were full of amusement and sympathy.
‘Joe!’ said Pip, and all the contestants turned, instinctively, to look at Joe, who beamed back at them with a sunny smile.
‘Is going to be chained to . . . St John!’ Pip continued.
One of the reasons that Dan and Pip were such a successful presenting duo was that they never judged, mocked or flirted with the contestants or the interviewees on their chat show. Always friendly and professional, they would never let their own personal reactions show. So it was only the contestants, with the exception of St John, who stared at Joe with tremendous sympathy. Being a very sweet-natured guy, however, Joe received the news that he would be shackled to St John for three days by leaning across to him, shaking his hand, and saying: ‘Nice to team up with you, mate! We’re going to have a lot of fun together.’
‘Ciao, amica!’ Santino said to Caroline, and the next thing she knew, he had bent down, picked her up by the waist and was swinging her round in a circle, stepping forward adroitly so that her feet didn’t kick anyone. ‘Together we will be a fantastic couple!’
She heard herself squeal like a little girl as she clung on to his shoulders for dear life, their faces very close to each other. He was laughing at her reaction, his teeth very white, his smile so charming she was dazzled by it.
‘Hey, let’s chain those two up first!’ Dan said happily. ‘Looks like they can’t wait to get started!’