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But you don’t actually pay him, I thought. You don’t make any money, and a percentage of nothing is nothing. I couldn’t say the words though. I wasn’t that cruel.
“So… are we really doing this?” I asked instead. The question was more to myself than to Nico. But it was Nico who answered, looking down at me, his face incredulous.
“Hell yes we’re doing this. Are you kidding? You don’t turn an opportunity like this down.”
I nodded. I was feeling slightly sick—but Nico was right. This was the crunch point of his career. If One Perfect Couple was the hit Nico hoped, it could change the whole direction of his life—and maybe mine. And just because my own career felt like it was heading for the rocks, it didn’t mean I could deny Nico his chance.
“Lyla?” Nico said now, tipping my face up to look at him. “Lyla? Please tell me you are up for this?”
“Yes,” I said weakly. “Yes, I’m up for this.” And then, in an attempt to convince myself, “I am really up for this.” And then, as the reality of what we were proposing sank in, “Fuck, I’ll need to buy a bikini. I don’t suppose my Speedo one-piece is going to cut it.”
“A bikini?” Nico raised one eyebrow. “I think you mean bikinis, plural. In fact, you probably need a whole new wardrobe. Get yourself down to H&M with my credit card.”
“What about you?” I said, ignoring the fact that Nico’s credit card was so maxed out I’d be lucky to get a single pair of socks. “What does the fantasy first boyfriend wear on the beach? A crisp white T-shirt?”
Nico smirked.
“Maybe. But I’m not planning on wearing a top for much of the filming.” He lifted up the hem of his shirt and pointed at his washboard stomach. “These abs didn’t come cheap, you know.”
“Of course,” I said. Somehow, now that it was a done deal, now that I had actually said the words, yes, I am up for this, my nerves were fading a little. Nico was right. Ari wouldn’t let us sign up for anything dodgy. And I needed to get away, we both did. “You owe it to all those hours in the gym. And your thirteen-year-old fan base, of course.”
“Well, exactly,” Nico said. He slid his arms down my back to my bum, squeezing my arse with both hands. “We can’t all be girl-next-door fuckable, you know.”
“Girl-next-door fuckable,” I growled, nettled all over again by the stupidity of the term. “I’ll give you girl-next-door fuckable.”
“Oh, I’ve already got girl-next-door fuckable,” Nico said, smirking. “She’s right here, waiting to be fucked.” He hoisted me up, his strong arms underneath my butt, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, laughing down at him.
“Is that so? That’s quite the set of assumptions right there, mister.”
“Well, there’s only one way to test this hypothesis, Dr. Santiago,” Nico said, grinning up at me as he walked me backwards to the bedroom door. “And I think I’ve got just enough time before the gym.”
02/15—06:34 a.m.
Hello? Hello? Is anyone out there? This is an emergency Mayday call. We are stranded on an island in the Indian Ocean after the storm last night. I don’t have any coordinates, but we flew into Jakarta and sailed southwest on a yacht called Over Easy. The yacht is gone and we have no idea what’s happened to it. Several of our group are seriously injured and need medical help. I don’t know how long the battery on this radio will last, but if anyone can hear me, please send help. I repeat, this is an emergency Mayday call for medical assistance. Can anyone hear me? Can anyone help? Over?
CHAPTER 4
THE NEXT FEW days were a whirlwind. Somehow, unbelievably, it seemed like we were actually doing this, and almost within hours, Ari was sending over draft contracts with terrifying nondisclosure clauses, and Camille was asking whether we’d prefer to fly out of Gatwick or Heathrow.
The strangest thing was that apart from me, everyone from Ari to Professor Bianchi was acting like this whole thing was perfectly normal. Professor Bianchi didn’t seem to understand that this was any different from your regular last-minute winter break—although I hadn’t exactly tried to spell it out. Ari appeared to think that dropping everything and flying to Indonesia on two weeks’ notice was totally reasonable. And maybe it was, in his line of work.
Nico’s friends messaged with sincere-sounding congratulations that unsuccessfully masked their professional jealousy. Mine made envious comments about free holidays and winter tans.
In fact, the only person who raised any doubts was my mum, who sounded bewildered when I outlined the situation to her over the phone, the weekend before we were due to fly out.
“A reality TV show? But, Lyla love, why? You don’t even watch those programs.”
“It’s for Nico,” I said, knowing as the words left my mouth how lame they sounded. “He really wants it.”
“Is he having some kind of midlife crisis?”
I laughed.
“I’m not sure Nico would thank you for calling him middle-aged, Mum. But no, it’s not that. It’s a career move for him. If they go big, these reality TV shows can be great exposure.”
“But why do you have to go?”
“Because—” I stopped. Because it’s a couple’s TV show, would have been the easy answer, although I wasn’t honestly sure if I was allowed to say even that—everything about the format was supposed to be confidential according to the NDA I’d signed. But it wasn’t really the truth, and it wasn’t what my mum had meant. The fact that the format was couples was why I’d been invited. It wasn’t why I’d said yes.
