‘They could just choose not to vote for us, though, couldn’t they?’ Hattie asks.
‘But that’s up to the audience, not the producers. As long as we don’t break the rules, we’ll stay. And then we just need to get the audience on our side. I mean, surely everyone can see how terrible this show is? Getting them on our side won’t be that hard, will it?’
They don’t have time to answer.
‘Everything all right in there, ladies?’ calls Adam, looking into the camera.
The housemates nod in unison and wave at the cameras.
‘Lovely stuff. Now, let’s talk about the most important part of the show! The votes! Every week, the public vote to keep their favourite contestant in. The contestant with the fewest votes is booted off. And that brings me nicely on to another fancy gadget we have in the house – The Tracker! Girls, please make your way to the dining room.’
The audience murmur.
As they drag their heels next door, the TV screen in the dining room flickers on. The Tracker looks like a league table. Amy can’t help but feel a little relieved that she’s in the middle. Gemma’s at the top, which isn’t surprising. Lauren’s coming last, which is a surprise. Amy thought she’d be a hit.
‘The Tracker shows the girls how they’re being rated by the public at any point in time. It’s a continuous feed, which gives the girls a steer on how their behaviour is being judged. It can detect positive and negative emotions. It’s very clever.’
‘Unlike you, you wally,’ Jackie mumbles.
‘If the public think a girl is being bossy, for example, not naming names’ – he coughs an audible Jackie and the audience crack up – ‘the Tracker will identify those negative feelings online. That will probably take them down a notch.’
Jackie shakes her head.
‘If they’re being sweet, that’ll probably give them a boost. The Tracker helps make each of the girls aware of how they’re acting, and is a handy reminder to keep their attitudes in check. Don’t say we don’t have your back, ladies!
‘At the end of the month,’ Adam continues, ‘two girls will go head-to-head in the epic show finale. The girl with the most votes gets a cash prize of one million pounds, ongoing therapy sessions, a fitness membership, a makeover, a holiday and a year’s subscription to dating club Love Market.’
The audience cheer.
‘And the girl who just misses out? Well. She doesn’t go home completely empty-handed. She leaves with a month’s worth of self-healing on the house and a healthier attitude towards relationships!’
Adam turns to the crowd and lifts his arms.
‘And that’s a wrap, folks! Tune in tomorrow to find out what’s next in store for our contestants!’
The screen cuts out and silence fills the air.
‘Lads, it’s eight o’clock,’ says Jackie. ‘And high time we tested that prosecco tap.’
It’s just gone 10 p.m. when Amy tiptoes into the bedroom and crawls under her covers. Gemma, who went to bed an hour ago, stirs lightly. The last time Amy slept in a bed this narrow was when she was ten. She thinks back to Jamie’s California king, where she was this time last night, trying to fall asleep without making a sound.
‘It’s your huge nostrils,’ he would say. ‘What? It’s a compliment. Fearne Cotton has a massive pair, and she’s a belter.’
Amy would pretend to find it funny, then stare at everyone else’s nostrils the next day wondering if hers were bigger than average. He would continue to joke about it, along with her bingo wings, wobbly thighs and double chin.
When she first developed her nostril complex, about three months into their relationship, Amy was genuinely worried that Jamie would dump her because he couldn’t bear the thought of being kept awake for the rest of his life. She’d spent hundreds of pounds on every expensive gimmick available, including a mouth guard that made her look like Hannibal Lecter. They eventually settled on an app that played rain to drown out the sound of her breathing. Of just being there in the room.
She wishes she was at Amuse Bouche. In any normal break-up, she’d weep over a glass of wine and grapple with Sarah for her phone. Then she’d go home, gorge on pork dumplings and watch Kardashians reruns while swiping Love Market to make herself feel momentarily better. That’s how you get over break-ups. You don’t get over break-ups on national TV in the company of five strangers who you have nothing in common with apart from being dumped in public.
Of course, the producers aren’t holding her hostage. Amy could walk right now if she wanted to and still get the participation fee, which would more than cover a trip to Thailand. But something at the back of her mind makes her want to stay. Maybe she doesn’t really want to go back to her drink-dumpling-reality-TV-binge routine. Perhaps she wants to do something completely different that breaks the endless cycle. Maybe she wants to prove to the world that she can do this. And let’s face it, one million pounds is probably worth all this humiliation.
Worries flood her mind.
What the hell am I doing? Is this the worst decision I’ve ever made in my life? Am I going to die alone?
Can Gemma hear me breathing?
Eight
WAAAAAAAAAH, WAAAAAAAAAAH!
It’s so loud. So very loud. Fucking blaring, in fact. Amy jumps out of bed and looks around the room, confused. What is that? A fire alarm? She sees the others running around the room, trying to find the source of the sound. Someone turns on the lights, blinding them all for a second.
A second wail hits the air. WEEEEEEEEEH, WEEEEEEEEEH!
‘What the fuck is happening!’ shouts Jackie, standing on her bed.
WAAAAAAAAAH, WAAAAAAAAAH!
Kathy shouts something inaudible.
When the noise abruptly stops, they inch towards the bedroom door and peer out towards the living room.
‘Oh my God,’ whispers Jackie.
WEEEEEEEEEH, WEEEEEEEEEH!
‘It’s six o’clock – what are they doing to us?’ Gemma shouts as they all move into the living room together, apprehensively.
The housemates stand transfixed, staring at the cots that have magically appeared next to the sofa. There are six screaming babies, each with the name of a contestant on their bib. Not real babies, of course. Creepily realistic dolls that have been set to cry mode, with no stop button that any of them can find. The housemates have woken up on Love Island, except they couldn’t be further from paradise here.
WAAAAAAAAAH, WAAAAAAAAAH!
Amy scans the cots and finds her doll. Ben Wright. She looks inside, picks him up carefully and examines him underneath to see if she can turn his volume down. Nope. Unsure what else she can do, she holds him at a distance in front of her.
This must be our first challenge, she thinks as she scans the room to see what everyone else is doing and if she should be copying them. Jackie’s holding her doll upside down by one leg, Gemma has hers in a headlock as she marches towards the kitchen with an offer to make everyone tea, and Hattie has her hand over her doll’s mouth as she stumbles back to bed, bumping into the bedroom door on her way.
‘Hold up, Gem, there’s a note in my cot,’ says Lauren, unravelling the paper. ‘“Congratulations, housemates. Welcome to motherhood. It’s Day Three and time for your first challenge – Oh, Baby! – where we’ll be putting your natural maternal instincts to the test”.’