That was all right. That extra $1400 was just going to be gravy. Because I’d already decided I wasn’t going to get eliminated, at least not for a long time.
This was not in my wheelhouse. This was not my skill set. Not even close. But I was broke, and I was desperate, and I knew from a hell of a lot of experience that comfort zones were not things you got to have when you were in my position.
The show filmed for six weeks. If I made it to the end, that was $4200. Add the extra $1400 of lockdown money, and that was a sweet $5600.
That wasn’t where the real money was, though.
I’d never had aspirations to be an Instagram influencer. My Instagram was almost exclusively pictures of food and dogs and sunsets, not myself.
But I’d seen the amount of sponcon CJ and Mary-Ellen and some of the top contestants from Brett’s season were doing. After hanging up with Murray, the next thing I’d googled was ‘how much do marry me juliet contestants get paid for instagram’, and my eyes nearly fell out of my head.
Fuck my boss. Fuck retail. Fuck trying to find some kind of a job, any job, in a pandemic when everyone was firing all their staff.
I wasn’t getting eliminated. I was going to make it deep. At least to the final four.
It didn’t matter who the Romeo was. I was going to make him like me, no matter what. Even if I had to do what Ayo had tried to do in my application and make myself sound like some kind of tragic Cinderella.
And that was going to make me a reality TV personality, and then I was going to sit back and let that sweet, sweet influencer money roll in, and I was never going to have to rely on anyone again.
‘So you’re here for the right reasons?’ Murray asked me.
‘Yes,’ I replied, smiling my customer-service smile right into the camera. ‘I’m absolutely here for the right reasons.’
2
After two weeks spent in total isolation in the lockdown hotel (several visits from a nurse in a hazmat suit who shoved a swab down my throat and up my nose aside), it was a rude shock to be squished into a limo like sardines with Murray, four other women, and – perhaps most importantly – our dresses. I wasn’t the only one wearing a meringue. The frothy tulle of my black dress paled in comparison to the gigantic yellow number the East Asian woman across from me was wearing, which I swear was actually one of Rihanna’s Met Gala looks.
‘Get that off me,’ Murray said tersely as she draped the skirt (Had someone murdered Big Bird to make it?) over his lap.
‘Where else would you like me to put it?’
‘Lily. Move it.’
‘I can’t just vanish it into thin air,’ she said. ‘Either it goes on your lap, or I take it off and I walk in there in heels and a G-string. I’m fine with either. Your choice.’
Murray glared. I did my best to swallow a laugh.
The Big Bird murderer glanced over at me. ‘What are you looking at?’
Yikes. Guess I knew who the villain of the season was going to be.
‘Can you tell us who the Romeo is yet?’ the tiny blonde woman sitting next to me asked. I’d found out her name was Amanda after she apologised to me about forty times for invading my personal space, like it was her fault, and her fault alone, that we were all basically sitting on each other’s laps.
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ Murray said.
‘I heard it was Chris Gregory,’ the woman next to Lily (another blonde, who I was pretty sure was called Heather) said.
‘The TV gardener?’ Lily said, wrinkling her nose. ‘Eww.’
‘What do you mean, “eww”? He’s a babe. Haven’t you seen his abs?’
‘He’s always so sweaty. I bet he reeks. Probably worse than you, Murray.’
Murray made a growling noise.
‘I wouldn’t mind if it were Chris Gregory,’ Amanda said. ‘He has kind eyes.’
What sort of things should I say to win over the heart of a TV gardener, at least long enough to make him keep me until the final four?Oh my God, I love gardens! Trees. Pruning. Mulch. It’s all so interesting! I love watching your show! I watch it every—
