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“And in terms of the blokes, there’s always the alpha males, the ones who’re duking it out for the prize, the joker, the jock, and you know, the cuck. The nice guy who’s there to be humiliated.” He swallowed. “I guess… I guess I’m just wondering which one is me.”
“Hey,” Conor said awkwardly, and I tried to think how to fill the silence. I couldn’t comment on how right he was about reality TV shows, because I hadn’t watched enough to have an opinion. But I couldn’t help thinking that in an American high school movie, Joel would have been cast as the geek. The guy who got his lunch tray smashed in his face. And that probably wasn’t a very fun part to play.
“Look,” I said at last, “the whole point about this, Baz’s entire pitch to me and Nico, was about how this show isn’t like all the others. It’s supposed to be breaking down all that bullshit.”
“Yeah,” Joel said, though he didn’t sound convinced. “I’m sure you’re right. Well… I’m going to go and get some food. See you later?”
“I’d better head too,” Conor said. He was looking at Joel and his face was… I couldn’t pin it down. Not concerned exactly. Thoughtful. “Zana’s waiting for me. Nice to meet you both. And, seriously Joel, mate, don’t worry. I think you’re overthinking this. She’s probably just tired and jet-lagged—we all are.”
“Yeah,” Joel said. He gave a smile that tried for some of Conor’s confidence and didn’t quite get there. “You’re probably right. Nice to meet you, Lyla.”
“Nice to meet you,” I echoed, and the two of them turned and walked away in opposite directions, leaving me holding my phone, and wondering.
02/17—3:31 p.m.
Hi, hello, can anyone hear this? Please will someone come in? Anyone? Over.
02/17—3:32 p.m.
Please. Please. I’m begging you. Over.
CHAPTER 6
“LAND AHOY!”
The shout rang out, piercing through my sleepy haze and yanking me to consciousness with a jerk. For a minute, I had no idea what the words meant. Land ahoy? Like in pirate movies?
And then I sat up, blinking against the strong light filtering through the tiny porthole, and remembered where I was—aboard the Over Easy, sailing towards Ever After Island.
It wasn’t the real name obviously; that was an Indonesian name I couldn’t remember, though one of the producers had mentioned it. But Ever After Island was what the production team were calling the island—after the show’s tagline Who’ll get their happy ever after?
I looked reflexively for my phone, before remembering that I’d handed it in to Camille yesterday. Instead, I leaned over the side of the bunk and peered at the little digital clock embedded in the plastic molding above the inbuilt side table. 7:02 a.m. Craning farther, I could see Nico was still out like a light in the bunk below. He had been up late drinking with the other cast members, whereas I’d flaked out after supper, jet-lagged into exhaustion. Now I was fully awake, and I felt the first stirrings of proper excitement… and nerves. This adventure was suddenly becoming real.
“Nico,” I whispered, and then, when he didn’t move, “Nico, are you awake? They just said they can see land.”
Nico muttered something into his pillow that sounded like “Shallah down a mimma” and pulled the blanket over his head. I grinned, swung my legs over the side of the bunk, and ten minutes later I was showered, dressed, and up on deck, my wet hair still dripping down my back.
After the heat of yesterday, the air was refreshingly cool and clear, though I could feel a promise of fierceness to come in the sun’s warmth, even at this early hour. Below me, two crew members were scrubbing the decks and chatting away to each other in Indonesian, and in the distance was a little slip of land, edging closer moment by moment. All my London worries—my job, Professor Bianchi, how I was going to write up the paper without my laptop—they all felt very far away. I could worry about that when I got back. If I was going to lose my job anyway, did it really matter if I did the paper now or in a few weeks? I could write it up in the evenings if I had to. And God knows, I needed a holiday. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a proper break.
I was leaning over the side, staring at the little island in the middle distance, when a voice sounded from behind me.
“Lyla, right?”
I swung round, putting a hand to my chest. Standing there, smiling, was the tanned, handsome face of the guy with the Mickey Mouse tattoo. I could remember his girlfriend’s name—Santana—it had stuck out to me for being unusual, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember his.
“Oh God, you scared me! I thought I was the only one up.” The name was hovering at the edge of my memory, then it came to me. “Dan, right?”
“Yup.” He came up alongside me, shading his eyes as he gazed out over the horizon. He had a light tenor voice and a faint northern accent, though I couldn’t place where. Liverpool, maybe. Or perhaps Manchester. It was so slight it was hard to tell. Standing next to him, I could tell that he bleached his hair—what had looked like sun streaks from a distance were clearly hairdresser highlights close-up. “So that’s it, huh. Home for the next however long we survive.”
“That’s it,” I echoed, following his gaze.
“Looked pretty sweet in the photographs,” Dan said. “I tried to check it out on Tripadvisor, but apparently the resort is brand-new—they haven’t even opened for business yet. Hope it lives up to the first impressions.”
“Unlike the boat, you mean?” I said dryly. Dan laughed at that, a surprised “Hah!” that bubbled out of him irrepressibly. He put his hand over his mouth and grinned, looking a little guilty.
“I take it you had one of the shit cabins as well, then?”
I nodded, then shrugged.
