Page 30 of Unscripted

@booyouwhore22: WHY DOES POPPY LOOK SO MISERABLE?! GO HOME IF YOU’RE GOING TO BE SO UGLY!

15

The next few hours were spent touring the house and getting settled in.

While the entryway and living room we shot our entrance in were all white marble and furnishings, every other bit of the house was painted and adorned in Bella Amore’s signature color: bright cherry red. It felt like some kind of Valentine’s Day acid trip walking through each room.

On the first floor, across the hall from the glam room, were two changing rooms; one for the guys and one for the girls. We each got a small, locker-sized closet to use. I had been told ahead of time that the show had a deal with a British fashion retailer to bring in new clothes for everyone each week. I supposed I wouldn’t really need that much space then, so the small cubby would do.

Connecting the two changing rooms was the bathroom. It was long and narrow, with three sinks on one side, two sinks on the other, and one shower in the corner. One shower for ten people. I thought back to old episodes of the show and immediately understood why it was so common to use the outdoor pool shower.

The next stop on our tour was the confessional room, or as the producers, in what I was guessing was an attempt to make it seem less intimidating, called it: the Love Shack. This was the small room in which we would each be interviewed every day and where I’d be expected to talk about my feelings. The show would cut away to the footage during each episode, and it would serve as a sort of narration for the viewing public.

A large, round sofa chair with red couch cushions was set in the middle of the room. Behind it, a floor-to-ceiling backdrop with a picture of a white-sand beach had been pinned to the wall, and in front of that were two large inflatable palm trees, framing either side of the chair. A tripod with a small, handheld camera mounted on top was facing the sofa, with a folding chair next to it where a producer would sit.

Overall, the whole setup struck me as quite low budget, and I wondered why a show that was so successful had such tacky art direction.

We were walking out of the Love Shack when a producer’s voice sounded out of the ceiling’s speakers. “Bellas, you have two hours to get ready for tonight’s cocktail party. Girls, please head to the glam room and boys to your changing room. Do not leave until instructed.”

And so, it began.

The Cocktail Party was the narrative centerpiece of a Bella Amore episode. Each and every night, the cast got dressed to the nines, walked outside to the fire pit, grabbed one of the two alcoholic drinks allowed per person, and toasted to love and eternal happiness. It was at that point in the broadcast that the television audience knew that whatever drama was going to happen was just around the corner.

We shuffled down the hall and back toward the glam room. Everyone had their own vanity mirror and table to get ready at, all pushed together and set up like an island in the middle of the room. The other girls hurried over to theirs, clamoring to refresh for the night ahead.

I sat at my own vanity station and took a breath as I plugged in a curling iron. I leaned back in my chair as it heated up, looking around and taking it all in. Everything was moving quickly—production, the girls swirling around me, time itself. So, I sat, still as I could, willing myself to relax and trying to ground myself in the moment.

I was here. I was doing it. I had made it through the day.

All I had to do now was keep moving, keep going.

I could do it.

I had to.

***

Getting ready with the girls turned out to be my favorite part of the day. Going through the motions of girl talk and gossip and putting on makeup made me feel calm in a way I hadn’t expected. The room was loud with chatter from the moment we entered, and it felt like being back in college and living with my best friends again.

When it was time to get dressed, a rack of clothing was wheeled into the room by a PA. Our sponsored wardrobe had arrived, and the other girls wasted no time dashing forward and grabbing at their favorites. I pulled a simple black dress off the rack.

Chiara did a double-take and snatched it out of my hands.

“You’re not wearing that, babes,” she stated as she hung it back up.

“I’m not?”

“Nope, you need something to wow the boys. You can go back to basics once you’ve cracked on with a bloke.”

“Cracked on . . . which means ‘hitting it off with someone,’” I stated, proud of myself for knowing that bit of lingo.

“Exactly!” Chiara said.

I was thankful in that moment that Blair had made me watch so many episodes of the show before arriving. I had picked up some of the odd British slang somewhere between seasons three and four.

From across the room, I could hear Ella mutter, “Teaching the American how to speak English?”

Her tone made it clear that she did not find my ignorance amusing.