‘What does that mean?’ someone asked. It sounded like they were underwater. ‘Are we back on the show?’
‘No,’ Z said. ‘You’ll be staying in another house on the property. You won’t have any contact with our Romeo, but as more Juliets get eliminated, they’ll relocate to that house with you for the duration of filming.’
‘Will we be paid?’ someone sobbed.
Me. It was me.
Z blinked. ‘I’m not sure now is the most appropriate—’
‘Answer me!’ I demanded. ‘If you don’t know—Murray? What’s the deal? Are we getting paid? Because I’ve got rent, and if I’m here and I’m locked down and I’m not getting paid,then I can’t afford it. What if my flatmates lose their jobs too? I need to look for work! Are we getting paid? Tell me! Are we getting paid?’
‘I think she’s having a panic attack,’ I heard Amanda say as the world went black.
3
There were arms around me, under my shoulders, under my legs. ‘Hey, hey, hey there—what’s her name?’
‘Cecilia.’
‘Cecilia, I’ve got you, okay? You’re all right. I’ve got you.’
Moving. Cold air on my face. Bright sunlight stabbing into my eyes.
Arms.
‘Did she eat anything last night? Did anyone see her eat?’
How could you even have a hot voice?
Lolling back against the arm of a couch, my body as limp and weak as overcooked pasta.
His hands strong as he cupped the back of my neck withhis fingers. ‘Here,’ he said, forcing a straw between my lips. ‘Drink. It’s apple juice. It’ll make you feel better.’
Tears spilling hot and uncontrollable down my face. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry,’ he said. ‘You’re not the first person to have low blood sugar. And do you know how often I have panic attacks? You haven’t done anything wrong.’
The black box of the camera looming up behind him, the fluffy mic dipping in low.
‘Hey!’ he said. ‘Don’t film her, all right? Give her a second.’
‘Thank you,’ I sobbed. ‘Thank you.’
4
‘Cece. Hey. How are you feeling?’
There was a hand on my shoulder. Someone was shaking me.
‘Nnnnhghhghnnnnhhh.’
‘In words, Cece. Full sentences, if at all possible.’
A spike of adrenaline hit me, like someone had jabbed a needle straight into my heart. I shot upright, my hands in front of my face—
But there were no cameras, just Murray, kneeling beside my air mattress. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Um, okay, I think,’ I said. ‘A bit groggy.’
