Chapter Thirteen

Chris falls asleep curled up beside me as I try desperately to drift off myself, but my mind keeps racing with so many thoughts. Thoughts of being successful and having to go on a television show. Thoughts of Arlie, Matthew Muller, Leon Drucelli, Mum, Bridey, the cat killer, Queensland, Alec, Kitty, Callie, and for a little while, I even play out some scenes from Pretty Woman. But after I finish thinking about all these things, I come back to the fact I’ve entered a competition to be on a television show.

Why? Why did I do it? I’m not a live-in-the-fast-lane type of girl. I’m the drive-in-the-steady-slow-rule-following-lane kind.

The producers won't call, so why am I lying here thinking about all of this in the first place?

I toss. I turn. I toss some more until Chris yells, “For the love of God, are you wrestling a shark? You better be wrestling a shark, or I’m going to whip your butt.”

“Sorry, go back to sleep. I’ll stop moving.”

Three o’clock passes, then four, and finally five. I’m still wide-awake with a racing mind and restless legs.

At six a.m., I throw back the covers and clamber from the bed, making my way to the kitchen where Fletcher waits by the refrigerator, meowing.

“Morning, my little love.” I pick him up and hold him against my chest as I grab the milk from the now open fridge door. “You want your brekky bites?” Fletcher rubs his cheek against mine. “I’ll take that as a yes,” I say as I remove the box of cat biscuits from one cupboard, and a mug from another, before I lower Fletcher to the ground.

“Here you go, boy.” I pour a large amount of food into his bowl.

The automatic machine brews my morning coffee, and before long, I’m sitting on the couch with a cup of steaming joe in hand. I’m going to need at least six cups of coffee today, if not more. I flick on the television.

Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

Who wants me so early in the morning?

Slowly, I make my way to the bedroom where I left my mobile phone. Chris is stirring by the time I reach it. ‘Private’ flashes across the screen.

“Morning, Melinda Grant speaking.”

“Good morning, Melinda. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No.” Who is this?

“I know it’s early. I apologise for calling you at such a time, but I needed to get in contact with you right away. My name is Susan Rye, and I’m telephoning you on behalf of Perfect Catch and Grey Stone Productions. Did you sleep well?”

“Good.” It’s all I manage to say through my shock.

“Excellent. Well, we have good news: you’ve been selected as a match for one of our gentlemen suitors. We’re so happy to have you come into the studio and undergo the necessary requirements to ensure you’re in tip-top shape to participate. Could you arrive at the Grey Stone Productions, studio, by nine a.m. today? If so, we can get all your paperwork filled in and your medical requirements completed.”

“Nine? This morning?”

“Clear your plans for today and the next three weeks, because you’re off to paradise.”

“What? Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“It’s early in the morning. Like, six. Is this a joke? Aren’t entries still open? I’m confused.”

“You’ve been selected. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I promise you this isn’t a joke.”

“Okay.”

“Now, can you wear something comfortable? Completing a medical and stress test is one of the conditions of entering the show.”

“Show?”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“Great. Okay, nine a.m. I’ll text the address to you, and we’ll see you then. Make sure you eat a big breakfast.”

“Breakfast. Yes. Eat.”

She laughs. “Okay, see you then, and on behalf of Perfect Catch, congratulations.”

“Why do you look like that? What’s wrong?” Chris whispers, now standing in front of me.

“Thank you,” I say with hesitation. “Goodbye.”

My hand goes limp. The phone drops to the floor as I stand with my jaw hung low and my breathing unsteady. My heart beats like a drum. It’s thumping so hard I can see my breast jumping.

“Mindy, what happened? Oh my God, are you okay?”

I can hear Chris speaking, but I’m finding it impossible to answer him.

Chris grabs both my arms and shakes me. “Woman, speak. What happened?”

“The show. I … I … I’m going on the show.”

“What?” Chris’s tone is high-pitched.

“I’m going to be on Perfect Catch.”

“Holy shit. This is amazing.”

“I can’t breathe,” I say breathlessly.

“Oh dear. I’ve got you.” Slowly, I feel Chris moving me from where I once stood. “Here, sit on the bed. Just keep breathing. You’re okay.”

I cry. It’s not a whimper or a sob—it’s a full-force howl projecting from my lungs. I’m petrified.

“Oh, Mindy-Moo.” Chris holds me tightly.

I can’t do this. “Chris, who’ll feed Fletcher? Take care of my apartment? Pay my bills? Get my mail.” I take a shaky breath. Who’ll feed the fish.”

“You don’t own any fish.”

He’s right, I don’t.

“Don’t worry about any of that. I’ll take care of everything here. You need to do this.”

“I’ll have to let work know I’m taking time off. What if I get fired?”

“Would it be so bad if you did? You hate your job.”

Would it? Be so bad?

I do hate my job.

***

The building is navy blue with the words ‘Grey Stone Productions’ inscribed on a huge billboard attached to the roof. Every step I take towards the front doors has my legs turning to jelly. I twist abruptly, headed for the car. Chris grabs my shoulders and shifts me back in the direction I was heading.

“You’re doing this. I have an amazing feeling about this entire situation, Mindy. You need to get away. Have an amazing holiday in paradise with a hot guy—no distractions, no life interruptions. This will help you to get over your fear of men, sort your mind out, and sort your life out. And I hope to God you finally get the ‘D’ because you are as pent up as a constipated arsehole.”

“I’m not having sex on national television, you idiot.”

“They totally won’t put the sex on television. Trust me.”

“Chris! Not helping.”

“One foot in front of the other, you big fluffy chicken. Where’s my chicken who’s ready to fly?”

“She can’t fly because she’s a fucking chicken, and she also got shot by a hunter. I want to go home.” I reach for the door handle as I gulp down my fear.

“Keep moving.”

Jingle, jingle, jingle.

“Okay, I’ve opened the door. Now you need to walk through it. Go on, I’m right here.” Chris won’t let me leave. My only way to flee is to kick him in the nuts and make a break for it.

I’m standing in the doorway with a wave of heat racing through my extremities. It’s like a heatwave of fear making me sweat.

“You can do this,” Chris whispers against my cheek. “I’m right here with you. You’re not alone.”

I take one big step, followed by another, then another, until I stand at a blue marble countertop which reaches my armpits.

“Good morning. How can I assist you?” The man behind the desk has kind eyes and sun-streaked hair.

“My name’s Melinda Grant. I have to meet Susan Rye at nine.”

“Oh yes, congratulations. How exciting. What I wouldn’t give to go on a vacay to paradise. This show is going to be amazing. I’ll be watching.” He’s flamboyant in his expressions, and it takes Chris all of two seconds to catch his eye like a moth to a light. “I’ll take you to where you need to go,” he says, smiling in Chris’s direction, not mine.

“Thank you,” I say quietly while rolling my eyes.

We walk down one long hallway which parts off to another, which we also travel down, until we reach a room with an open door, and before I even manage to exhale the breath I wasn’t aware I was holding, I’m standing in front of a middle-aged woman dressed in a navy pantsuit.

“Susy, Melinda Grant. Melinda Grant, Susan Rye.”

“Thank you, Samuel.” Her smile is kind and all-knowing.

“Welcome. Have fun,” Samuel says sweetly before ducking past me.

“Yeah, have fun, chica.” Chris grins.

“No! Chris, you’re staying.” I tense my jaw.

“Girl! I’ll see you when you’re finished doing all you need to do. Can you show me the way back out of here, Samuel? It’s like a maze.”

No, it’s not. It’s two corridors, you flirtatious traitor.

“Of course. Not a problem.” Samuel flutters his eyelashes.

Dear lord, these two are as obvious as a blood stain.

Samuel steps close to Chris, who turns and winks in my direction before giving me a thumbs-up. All I want to do is flip Chris the bird and scream ‘traitor’ in his face.

“Are you ready to get started?” Susan’s voice is softer and more feminine than it sounded on the phone.

“Yes, I am. Sorry. I’m a little nervous.”

She doesn’t offer words of reassurance or comfort. She instead half smiles, then lengthens her arm. “This way. We’ll do all the forms first. After, you’ll spend time with Dr Lennington.”

“Doctor?”

“For your medical exam. Don’t worry, it should be a breeze for you.”

“A breeze,” I repeat nervously. I must look the picture of health.

“Yes, with your medical background and all, I’m sure you know just what to expect.”

Of course. Because to Susan, I’m a doctor. “Right! Okay.”

“You are nervous.”

“Can you tell me anything about the guy I’ve been matched with?”

“Oh no, I can’t.” She waves a finger in the air. “What fun would it be if you knew? You’ll have to wait until Saturday, if you pass the medical, when you sail ashore.”

“But I’m the only girl, right? The show isn't like The Bachelor, or a group of couples or anything? I read there were three guys, and you needed three girls.”

“Just you. All separate islands. Did you read through all the information when applying?”

“I sure did,” I lie.

“Great. Well, there are no surprises. It is what it is. Three weeks in paradise with your perfect match and the perfect catch.” She laughs, and I sense her excitement immediately. “There’ll be rules and tasks and … oh, it’s going to be so much fun.”

“Great.” I know my smile looks as fake as it feels. “Rules?” Maybe I should have read all the information and not skimmed it.

“We’ll go through most of it in a moment.”

“What if I don’t like it, on the island, can I leave?”

Susan hitches her eyebrows high on her forehead.

I really should have read the information.

“You can leave whenever you want. All you need to do is hold up your get-out-of-jail-free card and say, ‘I’m leaving.’ You get three cards. Three chances to leave. We provided this information in the submission online.

“Oh, I know.” I didn’t know because I didn’t read it.

“Good! Well, that’s all you need to do.”

“Great.”

“Take a seat.” Susan points at a black leather chair tucked under a dark wood desk. “There’s a mountain of forms to go through. It’ll take a while.”

“Okay.” I move to the desk.

“Before we start, do you have any questions?”

Do I have any questions? I do. A lot.

“When does this show go to air?” I don’t give her time to answer. “Like, does it happen as we’re living there? Or after it’s completed?”

“We’re still confirming this, but it will be at least a couple of months after filming.” Susan’s chin wrinkles as she pushes thin metal-framed glasses she takes from the desk to her eyes. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

“Okay,” I say, puffing out my cheeks.

Forms, medical tests … I sure as hell hope this guy—no, this show—no, this stupid situation I’ve found myself in turns out to be worth it. If it isn’t, then this mistake is one I’m probably never going to bounce back from. I’m too fragile for the media attention.

I can’t do this. What was I thinking? I can pull out before I need to sail away. I need to get a cold—no, a flu. No, a contagious vaginal disease before Saturday. Yes, I’ll contract the clap. I can diagnose a fake case of the clap. I’m sure I’ll have some old hospital letterhead around somewhere.

“Melinda, you look concerned. Is everything okay?”

“Sure.” I gulp.

“Great. Here’s form number one, oh, and a pen.” She leans across the desk, and with only a second of hesitation, I claim the paperwork and begin.

I want to go home. I’m wasting Susan’s time.

But something compels me to fill in those forms, to agree to send a copy of my passport, and to let Dr Lennington stick a swab into my vagina a few hours later.

Looks like I’m in paradise.