Episode 1
"James Potter has it all," Sirius's voice announced dramatically on the television. "Looks. Money. Family and friends. But there's just one thing missing in his life."
James crushed two pillows against his ears in an attempt to block out the sound. His face felt about 200 degrees.
Sirius started wrestling him for the pillows. "My voiceover is excellent—you've got to listen."
"No!" James struggled to keep the pillows in place, but more of the intro video snuck into his ears. "I don't want to see this!"
"Er, yeah, I've had some girlfriends," came James's own voice. He was sitting on a park bench, which was somewhere he never hung around, but Rita had insisted on having the flower trellis in the background. She'd asked him probing questions about himself that left basically no stone unturned. And there, behind the camera in all of the filming, was his starry-eyed, gleeful mum. Also Sirius, the bastard, high on schadenfreude.
"My last girlfriend moved to Argentina," James's voice added. "Not because of me, though. It was a work thing—promise. Although she was also vaguely allergic to cats. Also strawberries, but that was less of an issue in our relationship."
Sirius had pinned him on his stomach on the couch, James's head turned toward the television. Stupid bastard spent too much time on weights so he'd look even fitter.
"I work for my dad's company," the video continued. "He started it and has done really well for himself. We make all sorts of hair and beauty products now." James's eyes flicked off camera. "Which all the girls will have access to," he read mechanically.
The footage showed him pretending to talk on the phone at his work desk. He wished he'd removed the cat pin-up calendar behind him that Sirius had given him as a joke.
"I work in the research and development division. Been there since I left uni. It's all right—I get to be creative, I guess. Also sometimes we blow stuff up. Mostly on purpose." He paused, then added, "At least half the time on purpose."
The camera cut to him sitting alone on a beach at sunset, staring into the distance. It looked dramatic but he'd kept finding sand on his skin for days.
"I live in London. I guess I'd like to live there in the future." His voice shifted to actually sounding interested. "I've got a cat. His name's Algernon and he's brilliant." In a shot in his flat, James proudly held up a disgruntled Algernon. "He's not too keen on me doing the show, but it's probably because I won't be able to give him much attention during the filming. He'll probably sick up a lot in my bed in revenge but that's just him.
"What I like in a girl is…" Now he was back on the park bench. A bird had shat on him not long after this part. "I dunno, I guess. Good sense of humor. Clever. Likes cats, of course. And, er...yeah. Besides that I can't think of anything. Oh! Arsenal supporter. That's a plus."
"Will James find the Arsenal-supporting girl of his dreams?" Sirius's voiceover asked.
"You prick!" James protested from his awkward position on the couch. "That was the least important bit."
"Over the next eight weeks," Sirius's voice continued, "James will have his pick of twelve women—"
"That's so misogynistic!" James cried.
"—who will live in this stunning castle."
The video showed footage of the castle taken from a drone. It looked like the extravagant home from Downton Abbey, and was equally unnecessary, a disturbing reminder of the continuing wealth inequalities in Britain. Especially for many brown people, James's family excluded.
"The girls are about to arrive, with the sole objective of winning James Potter's affections. But will these girls open themselves to love? Will they be able to keep his attention, and keep away the other women? Most importantly: will James get his happily ever after? Find out on the first-ever season of… The Bachelor UK."
James groaned. "I'd take a mediocrely ever after if it meant I didn't have to do this."
"I think I'm going to become a professional host," Sirius told him. "So don't fuck this up." He rolled off of James and smoothly onto his feet, then patted James's head. "It won't be so bad. You've got hot girls competing for your attention. Just have fun, yeah?"
James pressed his face into the sofa. "Yeah," he sighed. "Fun."
"I'm not here to make friends," declared Helena ominously. "I'm here to find love."
She made this announcement with her shoulders pushed back, her chest thrust out, and her cleavage busting out of the perilously low-cut, glittering fuchsia dress into which she had squeezed herself. The limousine they were in trundled slowly across the bumpy, pebbled drive of the stately home they'd be sequestered in for the rest of the night.
Or, potentially, several weeks, though Lily was hoping that this fiasco of an assignment would come to a far quicker end than that.
The clock had not yet struck seven, and they'd already been plied with more champagne than ought have been acceptable for that particular time of day.
This wasn't a viable long-term arrangement.
The deal that Lily had struck with Rufus—in exchange for a much higher per-word rate than she would normally receive—stipulated that she would embody the character he had created with at least a passing attempt at enthusiasm. She'd do what she could to stick it out for long enough to gather intel on the behind-the-scenes workings of the show, maybe four or five episodes, but she was under no obligation to fight her way to the bitter end.
She couldn't begin to comprehend why anyone would want to fight, let alone the five young, successful, and ostensibly sane women in the car with her (with the exception of Helena, whose gung-ho intensity was more than a little frightening, and who, for some reason, had taken a hula hoop into the limo). Although she hadn't met the six others who inhabited the limo that crawled just ahead of theirs, Lily could only assume that the calibre of woman it contained was just as high.
Bonnie was a secondary school teacher, for crying out loud. Valerie was a veterinarian. It seemed ludicrous to Lily that an attractive, educated woman would volunteer herself to pout and pose and vie for the attention of a man—any man, but especially the kind of man who felt comfortable engaging in a ritual as misogynistic and debasing as holding court over a group of women and deeming himself fit to pit them against one another for a shot at something so meaningless as fucking him.
Lily would not be pitted, not even for the sake of an exposé. It had been one of her caveats. She'd pretend that she was one of those hard-to-get girls if she had to, but nothing on earth would compel her to fall over herself in pursuit of attention from some wannabe playboy who likely had nothing but his looks going for him, if even that. She generally wasn't a fan of stereotypically handsome men.
Rufus wanted a show of desperation. He'd wanted her to wade waist-high into a sinkhole of self-degradation for the sake of added oomph. Lily, conversely, had wanted to punch her boss hard and in the face. In the end they settled upon a friendly, impersonal approach, working from his absurdly sexist theory that there were bound to be one or two desperate, overzealous women in the group who would easily mark themselves out for an early elimination, saving her by proxy.
She hated this. She hated this. She hated this.
She wanted to hug every woman in the limo—not Helena—and tell them that their lives could come to so much more than what they were doing.
It would be nice, she thought, fiddling with the hem of her dress (olive green and stupidly pricey, but she'd managed to have it placed on expenses, which Rufus hadn't been pleased about, but as Rufus was the one making her do this, he could kiss her tightly-swathed ass), if she wasn't the only one here with a hidden agenda.
Maybe they were all planning exposés. Maybe it'd all boil down to an exposé-off. An exposé Olympics. She who writes the fastest laughs the loudest.
A girl could only dream.
"I'm here for a free holiday," piped up Beatrice, twenty-eight, singing instructor, likes dancing, mimosas, and long walks to the cash register, but only if a strong-armed man is the one carrying her purchases. Such were the introductions that had been made shortly before they'd been bundled into the limo.
Helena eyed her coldly. "Enjoy your limo home tonight."
"Thanks for the concern, but I'll be happy to take the bus when I've been chewed up and spat back out. There's got to be a stop within at least ten miles from here."
"If you're not disposed of in a trash compactor," said Lily quietly.
Beatrice grinned widely at her. "Ground into meat for the castle hounds."
"I heard they let you loose on the lawn and set the hounds on you when you're eliminated," put in Bonnie, twenty-nine, enjoys crafting, studied in Barcelona for a year, proud owner of dozens of Feis medals for Irish dancing. Her thick black hair was gathered in an elegant chignon, and she, like Lily, was the only other woman in the car who had opted for water instead of fizz.
"Nice," said Beatrice. "Does anyone have a raw steak I could borrow? Squeaky toy? Handily humpable leg?"
"If none of you are going to take this seriously," Helena began, "you might as well turn around and go home." Her face was beginning to flush with gusto and probably booze, the contrast between her vibrantly pink cheeks and her bleach-white hair immediate and obvious. "There are some of us who—"
"Could you relax for like, five seconds?" Beatrice retorted. "It was just a joke. Obviously, I'm here to find love, too, I just don't fancy harping on about it."
"Save it for the cameras, right?" said Bonnie.
"Exactly," Beatrice agreed, lifting her champagne flute in agreement. With her smooth, tanned skin, sleek brown hair, and dandelion yellow dress, she was easily the prettiest girl in the car, and the prettiest girl Lily had met in as long as she could remember. "Save it for the cameras."
She took a sip, caught Lily's eye and smiled at her—something dry and droll, a smile that said, "can you believe this shit?"—while Helena made ugly scoffing noises, Bonnie smirked into her own drink, and the waiflike, strawberry-blonde Marjorie stared resolutely at her silk-sheathed knees.
Lily couldn't be the only woman here with a hidden agenda.
"I'm not doing it," James insisted, pushing back against his mother's shove. "I'm not I'm not I'm not."
"They spent a fortune on that tux." Euphemia managed to move him another step forward, both her hands flat against his back. "You're going to go out and show it off."
Sirius clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, mate. Remus and I will be here for you every step of the way. Thoroughly enjoying your misery."
"Only partially," Remus conceded. He and Sirius both looked dapper in their navy suits. James outshone them, of course, because he looked like James Bond, but they were nothing to sneeze at either. "We'll also be helping you make good choices."
"I've made a horrible choice showing up today," James said, "so you've already failed. You're fired."
Sirius shook his head. "You only get to fire the girls. We're off-limits."
"Not if I punch you in the face," James muttered.
Sirius solemnly pressed a hand to his heart. "I'd persevere with my black eye. Just for you. And for the laugh."
The two of them were called away to review the intro footage they'd shot earlier, leaving James, his mum, and Algernon standing amidst blinding lights in front of the castle's main entrance. James wished for a pair of sunglasses, ones that would both protect his precious eyes and make him look even cooler. Although they'd lit the castle quite dramatically, with upward facing lamps all around, and it would be difficult to enjoy that with sunglasses.
At least three cameras on wheeled tripods pointed at him and his so-called friends and actual mum (or so she claimed). Another camera stood facing the long drive, which was lined by tall lanterns with thick candles.
"Just missing the bloody red carpet," James said under his breath.
Algernon meowed at his feet. He'd tolerated a bath for the occasion, and had then preened himself for a good hour before finally agreeing to leave their room in the castle's west wing. They'd been late, and none of the showrunners had believed that it'd been his cat's fault.
"Two minutes," Rita said. She'd donned an acid-green dress that looked much too formal considering she'd never be on camera. She peered at James over her rhinestone glasses. "Don't ruin this for us. This show is going to make us a lot of money."
"I don't even want to be here!" James protested. "And we're not profiting at all."
"I'm profiting emotionally," said Euphemia. "And isn't that the greatest payout of all?"
James started to turn around. "I'm going to go drown myself in the pond."
"If you're going to do the suicide thing," Rita said, "at least jump off the top of the castle. On camera."
Euphemia cuffed the back of his head. "You'd ruin your suit. Now come on, practice your welcoming smile."
"I'm not a bloody marionette. I'm here—isn't that good enough?"
"No," Rita said flatly. "Now smile."
James stuck his tongue out at her but regretted it immediately. He was twenty-eight, for Christ's sake. He should've come up with a scathing retort worthy of his wit.
To be fair, he told himself, they were treating him like a child. It was only natural he'd react like one.
"No more tongue unless it's into some girl's ear," Rita said.
James blanched. "Oh my God. Oh my God, where is that pond—"
"Too late." Rita grabbed him by his upper arms and yanked him two steps to the left, directly in front of the front doors. "I hear the first limo."
His mum pecked his cheek. "Good luck!"
"I hate you," he said.
"So long as you smile!" She grinned, picked up Algernon—who shot James a pitying look—and hurried off-camera.
Rita gripped his arms bracingly. "Remember: these ladies are desperate and easy to please."
"Er, okay?"
"But don't be afraid to make them work for it. Makes for a better story."
"I will do no such thing," James announced. "But not-thanks for the advice."
One of the cameramen gestured frantically at Rita. She shot James a last warning look and somehow walked smoothly across gravel in her towering heels.
The front end of a sleek black limo nosed onto the drive, the sides reflecting the flickering candlelight from the lanterns.
James rubbed his sweaty hands on his trousers. Oh, God, what had his mum got him into? He was going to make a complete arse of himself on national television. He was going to make a complete arse of himself in front of a bunch of hot girls. Worst, he was going to make a complete arse of himself in front of Algernon.
The limo was almost here. Girls were going to get out. They'd walk up to him individually and say things and flirt and he would have to say something.
What was he supposed to say?!
He looked sideways to Remus and Sirius, who stood near one of the cameras, and silently pleaded for help.
Remus sent him a bracing thumbs up. Sirius just smirked.
The limo stopped a short distance from him. A weirdly far away distance, not right in front of him like he expected. Why were they making these girls walk so far to get to him?
The door opened.
His heart dropped into his stomach.
A modest heel stuck out of the car, followed by a leg and then another. Out emerged a short, thin woman in a floor-length, slinky blue dress. She glided toward him, the gravel crunching faintly beneath her feet, and tossed her mane of straight dark hair over her shoulder.
She was looking at him she was looking at him and oh my God she was gorgeous. As she approached—and maybe this was why they'd set the limo so far off, so he'd have a moment to recover from the shock of how attractive these women were—he could see more details, like her wide lips and dark eyes and perfect brown skin.
What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck was he supposed to say?
She was in front of him now, smiling, making eye contact, and oh dear oh dear this was not good. He was not good with girls he fancied.
"Hi," he said, but it came out more like a strangled yelp. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Hello. I'm James."
Rita had prepared him for this part, at least. He bent down to bump his cheek against hers as they kissed the air.
She stepped back and smiled. "I'm Isabella Marks. It's so nice to meet you. I love your tux—very James Bond."
James beamed and felt himself grow taller. "Yeah! It is, isn't it? That's the only reason I let them put me in it, to be honest."
She laughed, her eyes sparkling in the bright lights. "D'you like Bond movies, then?"
"I bloody love them. Which one's your favorite?"
"Diamonds are Forever, but mostly because it has an elephant playing slots."
Butterflies burst into existence in James's stomach.
"Are you serious?" he asked excitedly. "I used to watch that bit over and over again as a kid!"
"You're joking," she said through her smile.
"I'm really not. Seriously, that elephant is amazing."
Euphemia was a fucking genius for putting him on the show. Maybe this wouldn't be as horrible as he'd thought, if they'd really been this good about finding girls he'd like.
James grabbed Isabella's hand. "I cannot wait to introduce you to my cat. You're going to love him. I've been working to teach him to fetch things."
"What, really? That's so impressive."
He tore his eyes away from Isabella's to see Rita waving her arms madly behind a camera. Remus drew a line across his throat.
Right. They weren't supposed to talk long here.
"Yeah, I know," he said, squeezing her hand. "I'm really excited to talk to you more later."
Her smile broadened. "You can tell me about your favorite Bond movie."
"Oh, yeah. Definitely."
She withdrew her hand from his and sidled by, looking up at him as she walked. He stared after her even once she was long inside, and then sighed happily.
"Oh my God," he moaned. "Sirius, did you see that?"
Rita shushed him, and pointed back at the limo.
Right. Right. He had to do this eleven more times.
He was going to die. He'd planned that suicide by drowning, but instead his mum would kill him via reality television.
Another woman emerged from the limo.
A tall woman. A very tall woman, taller than both James and Sirius. Lovely face, yeah, but she was so tall.
He had to tilt his head back to look at her. So much for this show finding his likes.
After the exceptionally tall Rhonda Roper, James had been introduced to Charlene Stebbins (perplexingly in a leather dress), Lucinda Zheng (looked like and was, it turned out, a model), and Wendy Wilde (gave him a mirror so he "wouldn't forget about himself in all this"). The women just kept coming out of the limo, like some sort of weird clown car packed with fancy dresses and gorgeous ladies.
The last one out of the first limo was the pink-haired Camelia Pinkstone, who walked up to him and immediately stuck her hands into his hair.
"Oh my God," she said. "Your hair is gorgeous. How do you get it to do that?'
"Er," he said, his face feeling like a furnace, "I wash it?"
She threw her head back and laughed.
"I'm not joking," he muttered, but she didn't seem to hear him.
By the time the second limo had replaced the first, James was ready to sit down. Possibly also to use the loo. But he had a feeling Rita didn't care about those sorts of things.
The first couple of women from the second limo didn't seem too bad. Bonnie Grogan did an Irish jig, but she laughed at herself when she slid on the gravel, so she was alright. Beatrice Booth stood out in her bright yellow dress and asked him about his favorite song. She didn't blink when he said Careless Whisper, and they actually sang a few bars together. Any girl who liked Careless Whisper was getting a rose, he told himself.
Then things took the worst turn yet. Despite Marjorie Deacon's petite frame, she somehow wrangled him down halfway through their introduction and planted a kiss on his lips.
He stood up, shocked, and blurted, "The first thing you should do with your mouth is ask."
"I'm just a girl who knows what she wants," she said smugly, "and I'm not afraid to go after it."
James shot desperate eyes at Sirius, but he was busy shoving his face into Remus's shoulder to muffle his laughter, his chest shaking.
Rita looked delighted, her hands clasped together in front of her.
James pictured shoving her in the lake and not letting her up.
Somehow things got worse from there. A busty girl in a too-tight, bright pink dress burst out of the limo and immediately started hula-hooping. She slowly walked toward him, but never stopped shaking her hips.
He knew he should look away—her breasts would surely pop out at any moment, and James did not want to be involved in any nipplegate situations—but it was like watching a slow, gyrating train wreck.
When she finally, finally reached him, she let the hoop drop to the ground and announced, "I'm Helena Hodge. What's your sign?"
He stared at her, then said, "Er, Ace of Base?"
She blinked at him. "What?"
"What?" James echoed.
She patted his arm pityingly. "I meant your astrology sign. I'm an astrologist."
"Ah. I've no idea, actually."
"Well, when were you born?"
"Twenty-seventh of March," he said cautiously.
"Ooooh, Aries. I like an Aries." She fluttered her eyelashes at him. "You can ram me anytime."
James immediately thought that he wanted to ram her with a moving car. The limo would do in a pinch.
She kept looking at him like he was supposed to say something. As if anyone could say anything in response to that.
"Why've you got a hula hoop?" his mouth said. His brain was still mentally in the limo's driver seat.
"Because I'm fun," she said, spreading her arms out wide. One of her breasts came much too close to breaking free.
"Right," he said. "Er. Okay. Hope you...hope you have fun tonight."
She was definitely going home. He wondered if it was possible to give someone an anti-rose, like maybe a steaming plate of haggis, as an indicator that they should leave immediately.
He breathed out a sigh of relief as she walked past him.
Then he swore.
"Later," she cooed, and walked inside.
James stared after her, then turned to Sirius and Remus. "She pinched my arse!"
"No swearing!" Rita called.
"Why is no one on this show worried about consent?" James shouted.
"Hush," Rita said. "You've got two girls left."
Remus sent him an apologetic look. Sirius was on the ground laughing.
James sent them both a rude gesture.
"None of that either!" Rita added.
James grit his teeth and turned back to the bloody limo.
The second-to-last girl emerged, this one with ginger hair, a green dress, and simple, flat shoes.
She looked normal enough—besides the part where she was the most attractive one yet—but clearly looks were no indication of sanity.
He just hoped she could keep her hands to herself.
Also her tongue.
"Good luck," whispered Valerie, when the harried-looking, headset-wearing bloke who was crouched on the floor of the limo muttered something into his mic and gestured for Lily to go, get out, and move.
Good luck.
Huh.
As if she needed luck to converse with a man for thirty seconds.
Contrary to what her week-long cram session (hours and hours spent viewing episodes of the show from America and Australia, a week in which she had grown horrified to find herself growing sucked in and actively rooting for certain girls to get roses on more than one occasion) would have had an audience believe, she—and every other woman in this contest—had spoken to a man before. She knew what they were comprised of. She had been intimate with (and occasionally disappointed by) all of the major man parts. She had seen and heard and learned enough of men to be vastly unimpressed by a large majority of their kind.
There were things for which Valerie's wish was appreciated, like being on camera, for one. Pulling this whole thing off—the fake job, fake interests, uncharacteristic and frankly insulting life ambitions—without being discovered, for another. Having a multitude of people across Britain and Ireland watch her on television and form an opinion of her that couldn't be further from the truth was also an unpleasant prospect. All were terrible things, and she felt very much in need of a tidal wave of luck to get through it all.
She did not need luck to play nice with some puffed-up product of the patriarchy.
Even if he was really fit.
Which he was, she noted, as she stepped out of the car. Not that she had expected any less. The showrunners were hardly going to pick an ordinary looking bloke to place them all under scrutiny like an indecisive kid in a candy store.
Glasses. Good hair. Decent height.
Fit, in short. Passably fit. Inevitable douchebag fit. Not future-husband fit, despite Rufus's wild suggestion that Lily fall for the guy in the process of her research, prompting a trite turn into How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days territory, wherein they'd accidentally have meaningful sex in a shower, and Lily would be forced to declare her undying love for him in an apologetic-yet-pithy article.
She had the worst fucking employers.
The walk from limo to douchebag was a painful process because all she could see were cameras; two tucked away inside the bushes for those critical wide-shots, three more on dollies that followed her path along the drive, and a last one, closer than the rest, lurking merely feet away from the besuited monkey she was meant to try and charm.
It felt like too much effort even to smile, but she managed it, barely, when she drew level with him.
"Hi," she said, with what she felt was just the right amount of brightness. Nice. Pleasant. "I'm Lily Evans."
He bent down to nudge his cheek against hers, and she ignored every perverse inkling to jerk her head away and accuse him of getting too fresh for laughs.
"Heya," he said. "I'm James. Potter, I mean. James Potter."
Well done, she wanted to exclaim, you can string two words together to make a name, When do you get your big-boy pants? "Isn't the weather nice?"
Rufus had given her a list of potential conversation starters, things like "I'm so nervous," or "You're so handsome," but she hadn't attained the level of bullshittery required to pull it off. She wasn't nervous—at least, not for the reason anyone would expect—and he was handsome, but he obviously knew that, and his ego wouldn't benefit from being told again.
"Uh, yeah, no rain. Miracle for England, really."
His eyes kept flicking warily down to her hands, as if he were afraid that she might tackle him to the ground and tickle him into submission.
Presumptuous of him.
"Well, I'm super glad I'm here." Big smile. Generic. Vapid. Just like the girls she'd seen on television. She was fitting right in.
"I'm not—I mean, I'm not...not glad you're here."
Whoever this clown was, Lily would have been willing to bet her flat that he was no linguistics professor, but she couldn't rag on him, lest she receive an irate call from Rufus later. He "knew a guy" in the production team who would be smuggling Lily's phone into the house later that night, and was apparently poised to keep her boss updated on the various goings-on.
She arranged her face into a look of sympathy. Let the poor, pampered prince think she gave a shit. "It must be so tiring to meet so many new people so quickly."
He breathed out heavily. "You have no idea."
"Well, only one to go," she said. "I'll just head inside, yeah?"
"It's what all the others have done. But you could always be original and go around to the side door."
She laughed, a quick, surprised thing. Who knew he could be mildly amusing? "Or back to the limo. There's a 24-hour McDonald's about two miles away, and I'm starving."
He grinned. It was all right, that grin. More than all right. "Pick me up some fries, yeah?"
"Only if you're paying," she said airily. Behind the cameras, Rita Skeeter was wrapped in the most offensively garish acid-green dress and signaling at Lily to get inside, so she stepped to one side and breezed past him. "Later."
She heard him laugh. "Later."
That, she reflected, was relatively painless and adequately bland. A nice compromise between her desire to insult him into oblivion for merely existing, and Rufus's desire for her to let him—James. Potter, he meant. James Potter—take her roughly on the castle steps.
Look how well she was doing!
With one last coy, plastered-on smile thrown over her shoulder, Lily stepped across the threshold through a lush, ornately-adorned foyer. The guiding hand of another member of the production staff led her into an elegant ballroom, where ten pairs of curious female eyes turned immediately to land upon her face.
"Well?" piped up Beatrice, who was reclining a chaise lounge, with what seemed like a fresh glass of champagne swaying from her slender, outstretched hand. "Are you madly in love yet?"
She laughed, and would have shaken her head, but cameras, cameras, cameras.
Time to make some friends.
The last girl out of the limo, Valerie Turpin, hadn't been much of a conversationalist, but she seemed like a good listener and had striking blue eyes. Not as striking as Lily Evans's green eyes, but still very noticeable. And he'd admired Valerie's shoulder blades as she'd walked inside.
The second she was in, James let himself drop to the gravel.
"Oh my God," he moaned.
Rita was there in a second to yank him sharply off the ground. With her other hand, she rudely started groping his arse, swatting all the pebbles away.
He wrestled himself out of her grip. "I can clean my own bum, thank you!"
"Stop being such a child."
"I've just been groped and snogged against my will. In part by you! So I think I'm entitled to a bit of a sulk, if you don't mind."
"We need to go film your immediate reaction videos."
James groaned as she dragged him into the castle and into a side room, then shoved him onto a stool.
"You're doing well," his mum said, rubbing one of his shoulders.
"Is it over?" he asked hopefully.
She gave a hearty laugh and stepped away.
"Not even close," Sirius said with relish.
James made a disgusted noise. "Where's Remus?"
"Giving the girls instructions. I was supposed to go, too, but I was not missing this."
"I need emotional support right now. You're not being very supportive."
"I'm sure Helena Hodge would love to give you some support."
James glared at him as Rita sat down just behind the camera. She leaned forward, resting her forearms on her crossed knees, and pinned him with her gaze.
"Right, James. How d'you feel about Isabella Marks?"
James felt his mouth break into a grin. This was an easy enough answer. "What's not to like about Isabella? Gorgeous, likes James Bond, likes animals. Think I might just go propose now, honestly."
Rita gave a short laugh. "If you do, I'll slit your throat," she said casually. "What about Camelia Pinkstone?"
James felt his heart stop for a second.
"Sorry?" he said. Sure, he'd fantasized about drowning Rita, but that was in his brain. Not spoken aloud. Not said as confidently as if he'd done it before, and would readily do it again.
"Camelia Pinkstone. Quickly, James, just first impressions. Don't overthink it."
James grimaced, and rubbed at his poor, abused hair. "Er. Camelia's...outgoing?"
His posture sagged the longer he sat there. By the time they'd reached the final few—particularly after mentally reliving Marjorie Deacon and Helena Hodge—Rita scolded him to sit up straight.
He managed to pull himself up as Rita said, "And Lily Evans?"
James squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember which one that was. "McDonald's girl, yeah?"
"Yes."
"Um. All right, I guess. She didn't grab my arse, so that's always nice."
Sirius snorted loudly at the same time that Euphemia laughed.
Rita shook her head. "We can't use that. Again."
"Lily seemed...nice? She likes McDonald's and so do I."
Rita tapped her pen against her clipboard. "We can't air that bit because we can't namedrop brands. Again."
In one short night, James was really beginning to feel for circus animals. Maybe that was the career he should pursue: animal rights activist. He'd get to be around animals a lot, at least. And he'd get to shout a lot. He did like shouting.
"Er," he said. " Right. Um… Lily's got really lovely eyes. And she's not too forward. Think she might be nice once you get to know her."
"Good enough. And Bonnie?"
They ran through the remaining few and then finally let him off the stool.
"Would you get me some McDonald's fries?" he asked his mum as he stretched his arms above his head.
"Not a chance. You're not getting grease on that suit." She handed him an iced drink in a tall glass. "You may, however, have some iced tea."
"Cheers," he said, and took a gulp. He choked as soon as it hit his tongue, his hand flying up to cover his mouth. He forced a swallow and coughed. "Are you sure it's not turpentine?" he demanded.
"I forgot to mention the Long Island part," she said airily.
"It's all island and no tea, and that's the best bit." He shoved the drink back at her.
"Fine. I'll have them make you an appletini."
He narrowed his eyes. "Curse you and your intimate knowledge of my beverage weaknesses."
She smiled at him. "You are such a wonderful son. Fulfilling his mum's dying wish—what more could a woman ask for?"
"You always complain you wanted a daughter."
"And I'll get one when you marry one of these girls. It's win-win, really."
"How's it a win for me?"
Euphemia gave him a sly grin. "Isabella is a fitness instructor. Need I say more?"
James felt his mouth go dry. "No," he said hoarsely. "No, you do not and absolutely should not."
She pecked his cheek. At last, a touch he was comfortable with. "As I thought. Now go drink up and meet the girls."
Lily shouldn't have been staring.
Or at least, she shouldn't have been staring with such raw, unbridled lust in her eyes.
If the cameras picked up on this, she'd look like an utter tit on national television. Her sister, in particular, would never let her live it down, but she couldn't seem to help herself.
It had been such a long time, far too long, since she'd had any, and now it was right there, so tantalizingly close, should she be so inclined to reach out and take it, the most beautiful sight she had ever beheld...
She could admit, now, in this strange situation, in this extravagant house, surrounded by these gorgeous, fascinating creatures with whom she was meant to be competing, that she had never before appreciated the stunning, simplistic beauty of a well-stocked buffet table.
So why was nobody else eating?
Weren't they hungry?
Surely she wasn't the only person who hadn't eaten since three a.m.? She couldn't be the only girl who had been unceremoniously hauled out of bed in the middle of the night and bungled in the car that took her to a beige, humdrum hotel, where she spent several hours locked in an even-more-beige room, with nothing to do but drink water from the bathroom tap and preen for the night ahead—hair and makeup services were not provided, though she had been at liberty to help herself to as many free cosmetics as she fancied—and count the rivets on the ceiling until the limo arrived to ferry her to the castle.
And how were the others able to drink so much, especially on empty stomachs? Lily's professed desire to stick to water had been completely ignored by acid-green Rita, who shoved a glass of champagne into her hand and ordered her to toss it down, and even that had been enough to make her slightly woozy.
The party had been in full swing for close to two hours, during which time she had circulated the room twice to get to know the other girls. They were far more interesting than the bachelor himself, and a natural first port of call for intel, should she make it through the night.
If Lily's suspicions were correct, and more than one of them had applied for reasons unrelated to finding romance, she'd need to gain at least a cursory level of trust from them if she hoped to pick their brains. It was a competition, after all, and all of the girls had expressed a firm desire to be in possession of a rose by the end of the night, though it remained to be seen if most of them actually liked James or simply wanted to win for the sake of it. Any contestant with ulterior motives would be wise to keep them to herself at first. Helena had already accused at least two other people of not being there for the right reasons.
Helena Hodge was undeniably nuts—certifiable, really—and seemed destined to be booted out by evening's end. She and Marjorie Deacon were so passionately committed to gaining James's attention, and so slavishly adoring of him in conversation, that it seemed entirely unlikely that either of them were here for any reason unrelated to the pursuit of a husband.
Some of the others, though…
Right off the bat, Lucinda Zheng made it quite apparent that she was there to widen the sphere of her social media influence. She had mentioned her Instagram and Twitter accounts on more than one instance, referring repeatedly to "her brand" and all that came with it. She had told Lily that her accounts were being managed by a fellow influencer for the duration of the show to ensure her follower count remained high. Further conversation with her was definitely a priority.
Then there was Valerie Turpin, who made an offhand comment about how few female friends she had, and how excited she was to be in a house with so many other girls. This seemed like a perfectly valid excuse to be there, though it was something that Lily hadn't considered when she'd tried to reason out why so many women applied for this show. Similarly, Wendy Wilde seemed more excited about the prospect of travel and adventure than she was about James. Lily definitely had her suspicions about Beatrice Booth, whom she hadn't managed to grab for a one-on-one chat as of yet; Charlene Stebbins, who just seemed to want to show off; and, though Lily wouldn't have bet her life on it, Rhonda Roper, who seemed to be there only for the sake of her ego.
Conversely, Isabella Marks, who was bright and bubbly, and who Lily had liked almost at once, seemed so sweetly, innocuously smitten with James that Lily almost felt poised to wish them a happy life together.
It had been a long night so far, but she'd gotten some good initial feedback.
Long, fruitful, and tiring.
She was ravenous.
In fact, she had plateaued at a state beyond ravenous at this point. Lily was starving. She was wasting away. She was…supposed to have been trying her hardest to snag a minute alone with the besuited monkey, but he had escaped her notice entirely at that moment.
He was probably snogging Isabella—whom he seemed to really like—in the grotto they had been shown during their whistle-stop tour, or being lassoed by Helena's hula hoop, or standing on a small platform at the behest of Ruthless Rita, performing various tricks in exchange for his physical safety, like balancing an inflatable ball on the end of his nose.
Lily was not to blame for this oversight. The buffet table housed an assortment of fruits and finger foods, and a variety of sauces, but the other eleven girls were all about the bar, where the drinks appeared to be ever-flowing. At least two of them were already drunk, most notably Marjorie, who had lurched up to her not twenty minutes ago and bragged about having snogged James and been promised a rose already.
It wouldn't really hurt if she snagged a small plateful, would it?
She needed to keep her brain in good working order for this investigation.
Brains required food. That was simple science.
Fuck it. Passing herself off as a bionic fembot who could be fueled only by copious amounts of vodka was not part of her job description. She was getting some sustenance.
With some trepidation, and a quick look around to see what everyone else was doing—Helena and Marjorie had gotten into some sort of argument by the fireplace, and most of the cameras had zeroed in on them for the moment—she darted to the table and seized a plate from atop a large stack.
It was obviously made from bone china, and probably more expensive than her phone and laptop. This seemed like a bloody stupid idea, considering how production seemed to intend to keep each and every woman in the house in an alcoholic stupor. Those dishes were going to get smashed, whether accidentally or on purpose—she wouldn't have put it past Helena to toss a plate or two when she was feeling particularly irate.
It was ironic, then, that she let the plate slip straight through her fingers when she felt something brush unexpectedly up against her legs.
"Shit," she hissed as the plate landed, but thankfully did not break, on the carpeted floor. She looked about her quickly, relieved to find that nobody appeared to be paying her any attention. Marjorie and Helena had begun to raise their voices.
Her mic, however, was fully functional, and she knew that someone in a sound room had just been forced to listen to her swear into their ear.
"Sorry," she whispered, and bent to retrieve the plate, and investigate the source of the brushing. The table itself was covered in a thick, white cloth that was long enough to trail an inch across the ground.
Slowly, tentatively, she reached out a hand and lifted it up.
Behind the tablecloth, and much to her surprise, there sat a cat.
A very ginger cat.
A very plump, very fluffy, undeniably magnificent ginger cat, who purred happily at her appearance.
"Hello," she said, blinking. The last thing she had expected to find in this booze-soaked femme-parade was a cat of any kind. "Who on earth are you?"
The cat responded by taking a couple of steps forward and nudging its fluffy head against her hand.
For the third time in as many minutes, she took a quick scan of the room, this time straightening up a little and peering out from behind a plate of cubed cheese.
Still, nobody was looking. She spotted the besuited monkey in a corner with Isabella, while Helena and Marjorie's screaming match had successfully captured the attention of everyone else.
She lowered herself to her knees, and the cat purred again. Beneath his fluffy chin, she could just make out a large, round, shining silver name tag.
Algernon. His name was Algernon.
Was this some sort of test? Some part of the show she didn't know about? She couldn't think of any scenario in which a cat could bring about some sort of dramatic, first-episode twist, but one never knew with reality television. She'd seen one episode of this show where a contestant had come wearing a giant unicorn head, so why not a cat?
She pulled her hand away, and Algernon darted forwards as if determined to prevent her escape, knocked his head against her thigh, then retreated beneath the table once again.
"Do you need something?" she asked.
The cat simply stared at her.
"Are you thirsty? Do you need water, or food, or...?"
Algernon merely continued to stare. Not food, then, though why she was attempting to glean intent from the impassive eyes of a cat was beyond her. Something told her that he didn't need feeding at that minute, perhaps because he looked so well cared for, with his chunky little body and his beautiful coat.
"Are you scared?" Lily asked, while Helena's yelling started to climb to a fever pitch in the background. "Bored? Do you want a petting? A cuddle?"
The cat meowed at her, with an impressive swish of his tufty tail.
"A cuddle, then?" she concluded, and Algernon meowed again. "Right."
A mad idea popped into her head.
One that she could not, realistically, attempt to carry out, because she was on camera, and hooked up to a microphone, and likely being very heavily scrutinized at this very moment.
But it was loud in the room, and hot, and Lily was tired. Surely it wouldn't be so bad if she just...
Maybe the production would think she was charmingly eccentric, and insist on keeping her in.
Maybe she was too tired and hungry to care.
Without even bothering to glance around this time, she edged beneath the table.
The booze had been steadily flowing by the time Remus and Sirius announced James's entrance to the cocktail party. As he descended a staircase—after having climbed another one elsewhere in the house, for the sheer ridiculous purpose of making this dramatic entrance—all the girls began applauding.
James loved being applauded, but not for the meager task of successfully walking down a set of carpeted stairs. They'd even told him to hold the railing for a more pleasing shot.
He forced a smile as he reached the bottom and came around to face everyone.
Remus and Sirius flanked him immediately.
"I'm Sirius Black. And this," Sirius said, throwing an arm around James's shoulders, "is my best mate. My brother. Not by law, but that's what makes us better than regular brothers."
Remus coughed. "And I'm Remus Lupin, another one of James's mates. We'll be your hosts for this evening and the duration of the show."
Helena elbowed aside Marjorie to get to the front of the girls. James tried very hard not to look at her chest. Had her dress somehow become lower-cut since he'd seen her last? That didn't seem physically possible.
Sirius took his arm off James. "You ladies have three hours to get to know each other and our mate James here before our very first rose ceremony."
"James will be giving out two first-impression roses tonight," Remus added. "But two others will, unfortunately, be going home."
Sirius rubbed his hands together. "So drink up—"
"Try again!" Rita called from behind them.
"So have fun," Sirius amended. "And best of luck to all of you."
From there, his two best mates threw him to the elegantly-dressed, boozed-up wolves.
Helena pounced first, of course, literally throwing her hula hoop around him and dragging him away to a private grotto. From there, she proceeded to grab his thigh, imply she had plenty of sexual experience to share, and at one point seemed to reach for his fly.
This was the start of a series of quick interactions with the women, only for the ladies to constantly interrupt each other:
- A drunken Marjorie "Learn Consent" Deacon threw herself onto the sofa in between James and Helena and asked, "Are you two still chatting?" as though she had not cut off Helena mid-sentence.
- Camelia "Wandering Hands" Pinkstone interrupted James's lovely conversation with Beatrice "Careless Whisper" Booth to marvel some more at his hair. At least he'd got to give Beatrice one of his first impression roses before that.
- Wendy "Magic Mirror" Wilde asked if she could pull him away from his thoroughly uninspiring chat with Charlene "Leather Dress" Stebbins to awkwardly show him how to tango.
Rita insisted he go along with all of it.
Some of the girls, like Bonnie "Irish Dancer" Grogan, were actually really decent. She was a bit too short, but not in temperament—she was one of those exceptionally patient teachers that students always loved. Unfortunately, though, she taught French, the worst of all languages. Also physics, which was all right, but the French bit was a real turn-off.
And then, of course, there was Isabella. Isabella Marks, the girl of James's dreams, and the recipient of the other first impression rose. She laughed at all his jokes. She talked at length and with glee about her three cats. And she had excellent opinions on the rankings of Bond villains.
He could easily see himself revealing his secret middle name to her before this show was over.
Beatrice and Bonnie were up there, too, but Isabella. She even supported Arsenal, the only team in the league worth not just its salt, but whole salt and pepper mines.
If only there weren't all these bloody cameras surrounding them from all angles. If only there weren't boozy, handsy girls trying to get into his trousers. If only Rita would just give him a bloody hour with Isabella instead of forcing him to spend time with eleven other women.
When he was with Isabella, he could almost forget there were so many perverted camera people never taking their eyes off him.
Just as he was making Isabella laugh with his Sean Connery impression, Rita signaled for him to wrap it up.
"I'm sorry," he told Isabella. "I've got to go chat with someone else now. The party's almost over."
"It's all right." She smiled. "I have a feeling you'd stick around if you could."
"Don't tell the other girls," he said in a low voice, "but I absolutely would."
Rita's hand clamped around his arm again. He was going to be massively bruised by the end of this.
Once they'd left Isabella, Rita stopped in a small alcove away from the girls. "Right," she said. "You've talked to everyone but Lily Evans."
"Which one's she?"
"McDonald's girl."
"Oh, yeah." He frowned. "I haven't seen her all night."
Rita smirked. "That's because she's under a table."
James stared at her for a moment.
Clearly the appletinis, the groping, and Isabella's perfume had thrown his senses out of whack.
"I'm sorry?" he said.
"She's under the buffet table. Go get her."
"Oh my god, she's that pissed? It's only the first night."
"No." Rita tilted her head. "At least, I don't think so."
"Oh. Then what's she doing under a table?"
Rita smirked. "Hopefully waiting to pounce on you in surprise."
James pulled a face. "I think it means she wants to quit the show. No need to chat with her, yeah?"
"Inside," Rita said. "Now."
James sighed and dragged himself around toward the door. "Last one, though, right?"
"Yes. Then we'll meet back in the studio room to discuss who's going home."
He waved a hand. "I've already got it figured out, so it should be quick."
Rita's eyes crinkled, like she was smiling without her mouth. "Oh, yes," she said. "It will be."
As he stepped into the room, James prepared himself for a mobbing. Fortunately, though, Helena and Marjorie were having a heated conversation by the fireplace, and all the girls were watching. He ducked into the room, slid along the wall furthest from the girls, and rushed on tip-toes over to the buffet table in the corner.
Two olive-green flats sat abandoned beside a table leg.
He frowned. Shoeless and under a table were definitely not on his list for the ideal woman.
Rita coughed in the distance. James shook his head, prepared himself for a fight to keep his trousers on, and sank into a crouch.
He lifted up the white tablecloth, and yes, there, sitting with her legs tucked under her, was Lily "McDonald's Fries" Evans. Tragically, though, she didn't have any fries. Instead she was in the middle of cuddling his usually ornery cat.
Also she had a plate of cubed cheese beside her.
"Er," James said. "Hi."
She looked up at the sound of his voice, as did Algernon. Neither of them seemed particularly embarrassed, or ashamed, to have been discovered in such a strange and compromising position.
"Hi," Lily quietly replied, and then, "I don't really know how to explain this."
She had made no attempts at nonconsensual groping, and had clearly won the approval of his cat, which meant this was a woman James was not sending home tonight.
He lifted the edge of the tablecloth up to the buffet and weighed it down with a platter of sandwich meats, leaving him an opening to see Lily. Then he plopped down on the ground and gestured at her plate. "Well," he said. "I'd give up on the explanation if I could have some of that cheese instead. I'm starving."
She nudged the plate towards his knees, then turned her gaze back on Algernon, who was having a grand old time snuggling into her chest. "He's such an affectionate little thing. I couldn't resist."
James stared at her. "Literally no one has ever described him that way in his life."
"So this is your cat?"
"He objects to any implication that I own him. But he does live with me. So I guess he's like my housemate." He popped a cube of delicious cheese in his mouth. So much better than a Long Island Iced Tea without the tea.
Not as good as that appletini, though.
"Why on earth—oi!" she softly admonished, then lifted Algernon up so that his eyes were level with hers and planted a kiss right between his eyes. "Watch where you put those paws, mister. Why on earth does nobody else think he's affectionate? He basically strong-armed me under the table with cuddles."
This was possibly the strangest interaction of the evening yet. Not the least pleasant, by any means. But every other girl was flinging herself his way to shower him in compliments and share their talents.
Lily Evans was barely looking at him.
Algernon preened under her attention.
"Well," James said, "his typical reaction to strangers is either to run away, hiss loudly, or straight up scratch them in the face, depending on how handsy they get with him. Algernon is big on consent."
"The first thing you do with your mouth is ask," she said absently, and returned Algernon to his earlier position, snuggled against her neck. "I must be special. Your cat is pretty fantastic, and I hope you know how lucky you are to have him."
James found himself smiling. Finally, a girl who knew what to do with her mouth!
If only she apparently cared anything for him instead of Algernon. Maybe Algernon should propose to her. Then James could have Isabella and they'd both be pleased.
"He is," he said, "without a doubt, the best thing that has ever happened to me. If only he'd fetch me a bacon sandwich, my life would be complete."
For the second time that evening, he surprised a laugh out of her.
"Is that all you need from life?" she asked, and smiled at him—not a fake, plastered-on smile, like so many of the other girls, but a genuine, pleased effort. "A bacon sandwich? Of all the things—"
"There you are!" came Helena's high-pitched, grating voice.
James shuddered reflexively.
"And that's the end of the cocktail party," Sirius announced loudly.
James considered proposing to Sirius just then.
"Guess I've got to run," James said. "Take care of Algernon for me while I'm off making the least important decision of my life."
Rita coughed. When had she even got close to him? She was like a bloody shark.
James gave Lily an upward nod. "Take care of Algernon for me while I'm gone, yeah?"
"Sure," Lily said, having already returned her gaze, and the brief attention she had bestowed upon him, to his absurdly contented cat. "Watch out for thorns."
He laughed and hauled himself up to his feet. "Enjoy your cheese."
His smile dropped as Rita's too-familiar hand found purchase on him once more. As she guided him away from a stricken Helena, Rita said, "Now, remember the clause in the contract about how the producer has final say…"
Lily got a rose during the final ceremony.
Marjorie and Rhonda were sent home.
Rhonda's expulsion was a little surprising, though Lily's own inclusion was not.
Despite not having thrown herself at him at any point during the evening, the two interactions that she had shared with James had been perfectly agreeable. She'd also found a firm friend in his cat, to whom he seemed to pay a lot of deference. As such, she reckoned she was safe for a couple of episodes, provided she stuck to her front of vapid cordiality.
Being found under the table presented a bit of a challenge—there was no way to explain that with the insipidity required to keep up such a ruse—but she didn't think it had really hurt her chances. Rita seemed to love it. She'd questioned Lily at length on her "eccentric" choice during her first confessional, though "because I love cats" clearly wasn't the tragic-backstory-fueled-anxiety-attack response the show was looking for.
Lily didn't know what else she was supposed to say, though. She did love cats, and Algernon evidently loved her.
In fact, Algernon's attachment to her was so strong that he'd practically taken Isabella's hand off when she tried to move in for a cuddle. Sirius, one of the hosts, had had to help Lily divest herself of Algernon by forcibly untangling his claws from her dress before the ceremony, while a recently-returned James watched it all unfold in complete bewilderment. The cat had hissed and wailed like he was being led to the rack as he was bundled out of the room.
That had been strange, but what happened next—the rose ceremony—was even stranger.
The process of rose-giving was awkward and degrading for all involved, including the bachelor himself, who looked rather as if he'd had a cactus shoved up his bum for the entire duration. James could not merely hand out flowers, but had to call each individual woman forward and ask, "Will you accept this rose?" Said woman was expected to accept with some variant of profuse and humiliating elation.
The ladies played their part admirably, though Helena Hodge, to whom a rose was offered through gritted teeth, went completely overboard and threw her arms around his middle.
Helena was a ratings ploy if ever Lily had seen one. She'd overheard Rita talking about her right to a final say as she steered James away from the buffet table, which made her wonder if he had any control whatsoever over what was happening. Lily hadn't paid him much thought or attention as of yet, but what she'd seen of him differed greatly from the bachelors she'd watched on television. Those men were shameless in their enjoyment of the attention they'd received from the hopeful contestants.
James mostly seemed uncomfortable.
That might be something to look into, once she'd gleaned what she could from the women, who she believed—quite strongly—were the true victims in all of this.
When he'd offered the rose to her, she'd been half-inclined to berate him for not bothering to bring a vase in which she could keep it, but bit her tongue. Worse still, she hadn't even gotten to keep the bloody thing. A production member whipped the rose out of her hand as soon as the ceremony ended, and the process of showing them to their bedrooms began. The whole ceremony was so pointless, and she was going to have to relive it… likely two or three more times before he booted her out and started his life, marriage, and eventual celebrity divorce with Isabella Marks.
As far as she could glean from eavesdropping, James was staying in a luxury suite somewhere in the castle, while she and the nine remaining contestants were herded up to the very top of the house—what would have been the servants quarters, in Downton Abbey days—and placed two to a room. As had been stipulated in the contract Rufus had signed on her behalf, certain regulations meant that there were no cameras or microphones in their bedrooms, nor in the one bathroom they were all to share, but this blissful slice of privacy came at a price.
"It is completely forbidden to venture anywhere else in the house at night," said Rita, who had taken it upon herself to lead them to their quarters, as they all trudged upstairs, most of them with their high-heeled shoes in their hands. "You may move between your bedrooms and the bathroom, nothing more."
"Unless you have a genuine medical emergency," put in another lady, Euphemia, who had joined them on the trek upstairs. She seemed to lack Rita's cutthroat attitude, though Lily wasn't exactly sure what her job was supposed to be.
"Yes, I suppose," Rita agreed, pausing briefly at the top of the stairs to look down at them all. "A security guard has been stationed up here to ensure your safety—"
To ensure they didn't escape.
"—so please, bother him if there's an emergency." Rita then gave an exasperated sigh, and turned back around. "Follow me."
"I hope I'm rooming with you," whispered Isabella to Lily, and gave her arm a squeeze.
Lily smiled tightly back at her.
Isabella was very nice, and had taken to Lily almost as well as Algernon had, but Lily was too concerned with the Alcatraz-like sleeping arrangements to give much thought to who she wanted to share a room with.
It was bad enough that all personal devices had been banned—though Lily had already received her contraband in the form of her phone, which had been slipped to her in a napkin by a gaffer named Peter, and was currently hiding in the waistband of her knickers, charger to follow tomorrow—but it seemed she couldn't even stretch her legs at night without being apprehended by a bouncer.
What did they think might happen, one of the girls might try to sneak into James's bedroom?
Actually, if he really was sleeping in a luxury suite while the rest of them were hidden away upstairs like maids, that didn't sound like a terrible idea, provided she could boot him out of the room.
In the end, poor Isabella was paired with Helena Hodge, which was painful to think about. The latter had most determinedly set her sights on James, while it was clear to almost everyone that Isabella already had this competition won.
Lily was placed with Beatrice, for which she quickly found herself most grateful.
They were stripped of their microphones and shepherded into their room, where their belongings had already been brought, minus the forbidden items—including pens, books and paper—that had been taken from them upon arrival.
Beatrice tossed her heels in a corner. "Holy shit, that was a circus," she declared. "Which bed d'you want? Actually, never mind, they both look like torture devices."
"Adequate lumbar support isn't deemed a necessity when one is searching for their Happily Ever After," Lily agreed, eyeing the cots warily. "Hadn't you heard?"
Beatrice snorted in amusement, and dropped heavily down on the bed on the right side of the room. "Happily Ever After, my arse," she dryly intoned. "Get back to me when I wind up on Strictly Come Dancing, then we can talk about happy endings."
"So that's why you're here? To get on Strictly?"
"Well, I'm not here for that four-eyed puppet, and neither are you, so we might as well be honest with each other now," she said, with a sly smile that Lily couldn't help but mirror. "He seems like a nice bloke, I guess, but are we seriously supposed to find him attractive? The host is so much fitter than he is."
"Which one?"
"Remus."
"Ah." Lily nudged off her own shoes and sat down on the other bed, facing Beatrice directly. Her phone was digging into her hip—she'd need to remove it when the other girl wasn't looking. "To be fair, I do think he's attractive—James, I mean."
"You do?"
"Yeah," she said, in a ponderous sort of way, gazing off towards the ceiling. "Like a fancy window display, y'know? Visually pleasing, but that doesn't necessarily mean that I want to buy anything."
Beatrice let out a loud, quick laugh. "What a glowing assessment of our eligible bachelor."
"He gets to judge us, so I don't see why we can't judge him."
"Quite right, my darling." She lay down on the bed and turned on her side to keep her eyes on Lily, the train of her dandelion skirt trailing prettily over the edge. "Now, are you going to tell me why you're here, or am I going to have to guess?"
Lily considered arranging her features into a look of righteous offence, but Beatrice raised a knowing brow at her, and she knew she'd never pull it off convincingly.
"That depends," she said. "How good are you at keeping secrets?"
"The best you'll ever have, baby."
Lily smiled widely at her, and Beatrice smiled back.
Friend acquired.