One To Watch (16 page)

“Four point two in the demo!” Lauren exclaimed. “Our last finale was a
two point nine.
Do you even know how big a difference that is?”

“One point three?” Bea ventured, wishing this talk of high ratings and outperforming expectations would soothe the knot currently forming in her chest. She’d hoped that, after the premiere, her nerves would settle and this would get easier—after all, that was the last time she’d have to appear on live television until the reunion show, after the whole thing was done and she was already engaged. The rest of the season would be filmed in advance and edited together each weekend before the episodes aired on Monday nights—that had to be less stressful, right? If something went wrong, they could always take it again.

But as Bea listened to Lauren prattle on about ratings and demographics and watched the Pacific roll and crash in the gray, gloomy morning, she felt a twist in her gut. Last night, she’d only
met
these men. Starting today, she was going to have to
date
them.

“So talk to me,” Lauren was saying. “We’ve got eighteen men left, but only ten of them can go on your date today. Luc and Wyatt are already on everyone’s radar, so I need to bench them for the moment—don’t worry, you’ll do one-on-one dates with them in the next week or two. They’re gonna be great frontrunners, by the way—one good guy, one bad, I think we can set up a nice triangle.”

“Sounds great,” Bea agreed, without any real sense of what it meant.

“What about the rest of the guys? Anyone you want to spend more time with? We need to pick someone for your first kiss!”

“Honestly, I probably couldn’t pick most of them out of a lineup,” Bea muttered.

“Come on,” Lauren needled. “There’s not a single one who sticks out to you? Think back—or I can pull up some headshots if that would help?”

“Lauren.” Bea sighed. “We have to talk about the men you chose.”

Lauren frowned. “What about them?”

“The fact that you ignored everything I asked for? You promised me a really diverse range of men.”

Lauren looked bewildered. “This is the most diverse cast we’ve had in the history of the show!”

“Not by body type.” Bea’s throat was tight. “It’s one thing to keep the romance pretend, but being trapped onstage with a bunch of men who would never actually date me? I was humiliated. It felt like my body was a plot twist, or a joke.”

“Bea, I’m so sorry—I swear, that wasn’t my intention.” Lauren came over and sat beside Bea on the bed. “We talked about making this a fairy tale—I thought I was giving you a parade of handsome princes. And seeing all of them compete for you? We’re giving women a fantasy, right?”

“Sure, but if they don’t
actually
compete for me, the fantasy kind of falls apart.”

Lauren met Bea’s eye, the whole situation suddenly clicking into focus.

“The guy who walked out.” Lauren put a hand on Bea’s knee. “Again, I’m so sorry about that, but that was me, not him. I promise you that no other man will do that, that the rest of them are here until
you
decide to get rid of them. Well, until we decide together.”

Bea raised her eyebrows, and Lauren laughed. “Look, this season is going to have villains just like every other, but don’t forget that I’m the one running the show, okay? When our villains are assholes to you, I’ll always make sure that you look like a hero and they look like pure evil.”

“And you’re sure I’ll look like a hero and not the fat girl no one asked to prom?”

“My hand to God, the whole country will see you as the prom queen before this thing is done,” she promised. “Now. Can we go through the rest of the men you have here, so you can pick which one gets to be your first kiss? Maybe Jefferson would be a good choice, help you ease into things?”

“Because he’s the only one who isn’t thin?” Bea shot Lauren a pointed look.

“Bea, you’re the one who seems uncomfortable with the rest of the men, not me. If you’d rather kiss one of them, I’d be thrilled.”

Bea thought back to the men from last night, tried to imagine kissing them—the ones she remembered anyway. She flashed on one man: black hair, olive skin, green eyes.

“There was a guy who worked in politics? I couldn’t tell if he was genuine, but he seemed happy to meet me, at least?”

“Marco.” Lauren’s eyes lit up. “He’s really smart and so handsome—I think he’s a great first kiss. You feel good about him?”

“As good as I feel about any of them, I guess,” Bea demurred.

“Great! Then I’d better get going.” Lauren hopped up and headed for the door.

“Where to?”

“To talk to him, obviously.” She grinned. “I’m your producer, Bea. I’m the one who makes everything happen.”

As Lauren left the room, Bea took a moment to process what she’d just agreed to do: Today, on camera, she was going to kiss a man for the first time since last summer with Ray. She felt a wave of disloyalty, or maybe even guilt, which was ridiculous—she wasn’t with Ray. He was
with
his fiancée.

So why couldn’t Bea shake the feeling that this was a truly terrible idea?

Once she’d thrown on sweats and had some coffee, Bea made her way down to wardrobe, where Alison was waiting with a gorgeous Reem Acra caftan fabricated in sumptuous red silk. Bea couldn’t fathom why her stylists had loaded her up with so much hairspray, but once a camera crew escorted her to the back of the house, she understood: A little speedboat was waiting to ferry her to an opulent yacht anchored a few hundred yards offshore, where she’d meet ten men for her first official date.

“Holy crap.” Bea laughed with amazement, taking in the yacht that gleamed pearl white against the vividly blue Pacific, finding it difficult to believe it was actually there for her. On her brief speedboat ride, with two cameras trained on her face, Bea breathed in the salt and spray and allowed herself to relax. Filming this show wasn’t just going to be the pressure of interacting with all these men; it was also going to be staggering luxury and once-in-a-lifetime experiences. She needed to be grateful and enjoy them.

She was grateful, too, that the men were already on deck, so none of them were around to witness her awkward embarkation up the yacht’s ladder from the little speedboat. Once aboard, though, the yacht was as spectacular as Bea had hoped: The spacious cabins belowdecks were plush and comfortable, outfitted with thick carpets, mirrored dressers, marble bathrooms, and cushy beds.

“I could get used to this,” Bea cooed as Lauren showed her to the cabin that had been set up as her private dressing space.

“I’m glad you’re happy.” Lauren rubbed Bea’s shoulder, and Bea felt a surge of affection for her producer, who really was doing her best to make this whole adventure feel special.

“Okay,” Lauren went on, “the guys are all waiting on deck; we’ll give you some privacy to change your clothes and then you’ll head up to meet them?”

“Change? What’s wrong with the dress I’m wearing?”

“Nothing! But you can hardly wear a dress to a hot-tub party, can you?”

Bea felt her stomach drop. “Hot-tub party?”

“Yes! For your first date, I wanted to go full luxury: a hot tub on the deck of a yacht on the Pacific. Wow, right?”

“Wow. Right.”

“Great! So we laid out some swimsuits for you to choose from—”

“Lauren, no. I’m not wearing a bathing suit on TV. Just—no.”

“I’m confused—you said it was really important to show America that you’re proud of your body. And you post bikini selfies on your blog all the time!”

Bea closed her eyes. “That’s different.”

“Why? Help me understand.”

“Because it’s
my blog
. I’m the one in control: I get to approve the photos, I’m the one choosing to publish them, and I feel proud of every single image. With this—it’s video, and it’s high def. If I wear a swimsuit on this show, hideous trolls are going to find the least flattering shots of me and turn them into memes and GIFs, they’re going to say disgusting things about me and tweet them at me every day.”

Bea’s breath was shallow, and her palms were sweating.
Stay calm,
she willed herself.
Don’t panic.

“But Bea,” Lauren said softly, “don’t you think you have a better chance of fighting those trolls if you go out there with your head held high, if you show them that it doesn’t matter what they think? Don’t you think that’s the best way to shut them down?”

Bea laughed bitterly. “The only way to shut them down is not to feed them. Believe me, they’re going to make a meal out of this.”

“Well—then what about not letting them win? Not letting them control what you do with your body?”

“Sure, if they were stopping me from doing something I actually
wanted
to do, but I don’t want to do this! Please, Lauren—can’t we just do a regular cocktail party and nix the hot-tub thing? I don’t understand why this is such a big deal.”

Lauren shook her head. “The guys all wore their swimsuits here—they don’t have changes of clothes. If I send them all back to the compound and bring them back out here, it’ll take too much time; we’ll lose the light. We don’t have a lighting setup to shoot here after dark, and we only have the boat for today.”

“Okay, so they can wear their suits, and I can wear this dress. It’s beachy, right?”

“Bea, if you want to wear the dress, that’s your prerogative, but …”

“But?” Bea prompted.

“If they’re all in swimsuits, and you’re in regular clothes—it’ll just look ridiculous, you know? It’ll seem like you’re ashamed of your body, and I know that’s not the message you want to project.”

Bea wished there were some way to make Lauren understand what she was asking, to help her see how hard Bea had to fight to maintain control over who saw her body and how: carefully choosing outfits that made her feel great about herself, shopping almost exclusively online to avoid the indignity of pitying salespeople explaining that they simply don’t stock her size, finally buying her own personal seatbelt extender for air travel so she’d never have to endure the snide looks of another flight attendant or fellow passenger when she was forced to request one. And now, with millions of people tuned in, more people than had ever looked at her in her life, Lauren wanted to obliterate her ability to exert any power over how she was seen. She wished she saw a way around it—but Lauren was right. They were out of options.

“If I do this,” Bea said with resignation, “will you promise not to use it as a storyline for the episode?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Bea narrowed her eyes. “Yes, you do. The way you had that man walk off last night to create sympathy for me—do
not
do that with this bathing suit, with my body. Do not film the men saying wretched things about me to make America like me better. If I’m going to treat this situation as normal and nothing to be ashamed of, then they should too.”

“You’re right, Bea.” Lauren met her gaze. “I promise.”

Bea waited for Lauren and the other crew members to leave and shut the door before she closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. Bea modeled on her blog, but she wasn’t a model by any means. Her figure wasn’t perfectly proportional; her round belly gave her more of an apple shape, and she’d worked for years to overcome her insecurities about the puckering dimples in the skin of her arms and thighs. She knew these parts of her were deeply normal, but all the same, she usually kept them covered or minimized with an army of fashion tricks.

“Well,” she sighed, “not today!”

The one saving grace of the situation was that Alison had picked some gorgeous suits for Bea; she settled on an electric violet Chromat bikini with a high-waisted brief and snug halter top that accentuated her cleavage. As she tied a matching sarong artfully around her waist, she rationalized that at least her thighs were covered. It really wasn’t so much worse than wearing a skirt and a crop top, which she’d done plenty of times in public—just not on television.

As Bea made her way onto the deck of the yacht and saw the half dozen camera operators (and attendant sound ops and PAs) swarming through the space, poised to capture her every move, she felt a rush of exhilaration despite all her anxiety. Yes, it was terrifying to hand over control of her image to Lauren and the crew, but there was a sliver of excitement too. Bea loved the thrill of selecting that perfect photo of herself, of posting it on Insta and her blog and watching the likes and adoring comments roll in. These people were professionals, and Lauren wanted America to see Bea as a princess. Wasn’t it possible that this date could be as glamorous and sexy as Lauren promised?

Lauren had the group of men—all in their swimsuits, all with their toned bodies (except for Jefferson, who was a welcome sight)—arranged in a semicircle awaiting Bea’s arrival, which was terrific to really maximize the awkwardness of the situation, especially since Bea realized she only knew half their names. There was Jefferson; Jaime the hot Texan bartender; Ben the kindergarten teacher (who was still, Bea noted, wearing Birkenstocks); the Asian American guy with the black glasses and salt-and-pepper hair (Aslan? No, that was the lion from Narnia); Nash the real estate broker with the nasty look in his eye (Nasty Nash! Now, that was a functional mnemonic); several others Bea couldn’t name to save her life; and one whose name had been rattling around in her mind all day: Marco, the politico Bea had chosen for her first kiss. When they made eye contact, briefly, his smile was knowing.

“Hey, Lauren?” Bea grabbed her producer. “This is embarrassing, but can we just run down everyone’s names before I have to actually, you know, make conversation?”

“Sure.” Lauren looked up from her phone, which was a constant thrum of texts on something called “Producer Thread.” “Who don’t you know?”

“I know Jefferson, Jaime, Nash, and Ben. And Marco, obviously.” Bea’s stomach gave an involuntary flip as she said the name—a staged kiss was still an actual kiss, and she was starting to feel actually nervous.

“Which Ben do you know?”

“Kindergarten Ben.”

“Personal trainer Ben is here too—in the red swim shorts?”

“I thought personal trainer Ben didn’t get a date this week?”