8
I only slept a few hours, fitful and restless in my bunk. I’d been the last to bed – I waited until I was positive the other four women were asleep before I went upstairs – but was the first up again the next morning, back out on the verandah, this time with a giant mug of coffee instead of chamomile tea.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the way Dylan’s voice had sounded last night. The way his voice had cracked on the word ‘friend’. Like it might break something in him if I’d said, ‘No, actually, I think I’m good.’
My life would be much easier if I had. Without him, I could disappear into the wallpaper of the Convent. Maybe I could even become friends with one or two of the other women, the way Ayo and I had become friends in that group home. We could sit out here on the steps at night and look up at the stars and talk about our lives and strategise about whatwe needed to do in front of Convent Cam in order to finagle a spot onJuliet on the Beach.
Let’s stay friends, Cece, they’d say airily when we were finally allowed to leave the Convent.I’ll follow you on Insta as soon as I get my phone back.
But their voice wouldn’t break on the word ‘friends’. They wouldn’t need me.
I leaned my head against the post. It was a drug, that feeling. Being needed.
For all Dylan’s rhetoric about his charity and what a good idea it was to tell a story about men and women being friends, I’d assumed he was just doing this for my benefit. Because he’d heard my sob story and felt sorry for me. Because he was genuinely a very nice and kind person, and he wanted to make sure that I was okay.
Which was lovely, because there weren’t a lot of people in the world who’d take the time out of their lives to make sure I was okay. Especially not people who were on a filming schedule as hectic as Dylan’s.
But then his voice had broken.Just keep being my friend.
I was onto my second cup of coffee and my fifty-seventh internal lecture about how this was a very unhealthy pattern of thinking and how embarrassingly I was over-reading one little voice crack when a golf cart pulled up on the lawn. ‘Morning, Cece,’ Murray said.
He swung himself out of the golf cart, and immediately doubled over in pain, swearing.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked, setting my coffee cup down on the step beside me.
‘I’m fine, just pulled a muscle,’ he said. ‘I need you to go inside and get ready. You and the others.’
‘What?’
‘We’re still paying you all,’ he said, ‘but you’re the only one earning your keep at the moment. We might as well get some use out of all of you.’
That was how I ended up in what had to be one of the most bizarre situations a person could ever find themselves: aMarry Me, Julietgroup date.
‘Welcome to the first ever game of Love Jockey Hockey!’ announced Z. ‘This has never been done before onMarry Me, Juliet: a face-off between the Juliets and the contestants who have been eliminated! Villa versus Convent: a battle royale!’
I caught Dylan’s eye. ‘Love Jockey Hockey?’ I mouthed.
He glanced around. He was in full Romeo mode and there were a bunch of cameras on him, so he couldn’t do much, but it didn’t take a genius to see the ‘this definitely wasn’t my idea – I’m so sorry’ in his eyes.
We were standing by the side of the lake at the bottom of the hill. The lake was bigger than I’d thought, stretching off into the distance as far as the eye could see. About a hundred metres away from us was a jetty, a boat (Dylan’s boat?) tied up beside it, bobbing gently. Most of the shore was lined with trees, but we were standing in a wide, green open space, about the size of a football oval. Maybe it actually was a football oval. Whoever owned this place clearly wasn’t strapped for cash. Putting in their own football oval seemed pretty on-brand.
Rani, Samantha, Kanda, Marija and I had been pulled out of the Convent and sent to a hair-and-make-up tent. We were all wearing bright green satin jockey-style shirts and tight white pants.
Standing a few metres away from us were five of the Juliets who were still in the competition, also wearing white pants and satin jockey shirts, though theirs were red with black checks. Hero Nurse Dylan had given me a friendly wave, which turned into her wrestling with her hair, which was blowing into her eyes in the breeze. I hadn’t recognised three of the other women – truly, I’d taken in so little on my one night in the Villa – but they’d been introduced as Jess K, Naya and Belinda.
Then there was Lily Fireball.
‘I’m not wearing this,’ she’d said, when someone from wardrobe tried to hand her the red checked blouse. ‘Not a chance in hell.’
‘Please,’ the wardrobe woman begged. ‘Everyone has to wear them. They’re going for a whole jockey look.’
‘I’m not everyone.’
‘Lily, for God’s sake, just put it on,’ Hero Nurse Dylan said shortly.
It didn’t seem like it had been a great move on Hero Nurse Dylan’s part, because Lily had just dug her heels in even harder. It wasn’t until Murray intervened and took Lily outside for a talking-to that they finally managed to get her to put the stupid blouse on.
Not that Lily looked particularly chastened. She had that same half-smile on her face that she’d worn when I’d tried toconfront her by the pool and failed so badly: all-knowing and self-satisfied.
