‘It’s where all the crew stay so that we can make sure all the dailies come in and are monitored correctly twenty-four seven,’ he says eventually as we hurtle away from the village. ‘The kitchen staff make food for the crew and contestants from trailers, the camera operators work remotely from a makeshift office, we have technicians working on cabling and lighting, we have runners checking on the contestants in over twenty nearby villas.’ He gives me a pleading look. ‘Keep it to yourself. Do you promise?’
I nod. ‘Of course. Not one word.’
‘I’ll need to drop you off at the villa first before I head to the production village,’ he says, pinching the bridge of his nose like I do when figuring things out. ‘Then I’ll need to get to the Love on the Island villa before dark otherwise without electrics we can’t see what we’re doing.’ I can see his mind trying to work out how he’ll squash it all in. ‘But it’s about a two-hour round trip. There’s just not enough time to do it all.’
‘You’re forgetting I’m a teacher. Doing a hundred jobs at once is my superpower. There is time.’
Cam takes his eyes off the road to give me a quizzical look.
‘You’ll have time if you take me with you, and I hide in the car.’
His face lights up. ‘Man, that would be so great. Are you sure? Absolutely no one can see you or it’s game over. They’ll send you back home for sure and I’ll get sacked on the spot. It’s like one of those sacred rules.’
‘Roger that,’ I say, giving him a salute. ‘I will stay hidden.’
I think I’m a bit tipsy from the spicy beer, but he is so relieved that I don’t think he’s noticed.
We arrive twenty minutes later to a park full of trailers, prefabricated square offices, what seems like millions of people scurrying around, cables everywhere, portacabins and lots of gazebos with tables and chairs dotted about with people sitting staring at laptops. I look at a huge wooden pole acting as an electricity pylon. It has signs nailed onto it for toilets, washrooms, a kitchen area and a medical tent.
‘It’s too crowded,’ Cam says, as I slide down the seat covering my face with my huge floppy hat. ‘I’ll drive to my trailer. You can hide in there until I’m done.’
His trailer! An actual American-style TV trailer. ‘Wow. I can’t wait to see what’s inside your trailer,’ I say without thinking. He frowns at me. ‘I mean to get out of the heat. It’ll be more comfortable.’
He swings the car round the back of a huge trailer and jumps out. ‘Wait here until I unlock the door.’ He fiddles with some keys, looks quickly to his left then right and beckons me to follow him in. I scurry up the two stairs, and he shuts the door behind us before rolling down the blinds over the windows. Only two narrow window slits along the top allow the light to pour in.
He looks a bit flustered that I’m in his personal space. ‘Make yourself at home. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Help yourself to whatever there is. Try not to read any confidential papers if you can help it.’
He closes the door quietly behind him while I cast my gaze around. I’ve never been inside a television trailer. It’s very nice and compact. There’s a slim desk with a laptop, what look like scripts and charts scattered on top and a huge mirror. Opposite is a tall thin wardrobe in shiny walnut wood. I pull the long golden handle and it slides easily open. A waft of clean freshly laundered shirts fills my nostrils. It’s a lavender smell. He obviously likes his tops and shorts ironed because everything hanging up looks pristine. I close the wardrobe and notice thatnext to it there is a door leading to a tiny bathroom with a shower. I breathe in a musky woody scent blooming from the cabinets. He has good taste in toiletries. Next to that a kitchen bench runs the length of the trailer with a microwave fixed to the wall and a built-in fridge stocked with cold drinks and snacks. There’s a sweet little dining area opposite with a table for two. It looks unused. Then the trailer opens out into a spacious living area with an L-shaped sofa and a giant TV on the wall. The last door is obviously the bedroom. It’s closed so I shouldn’t go in.
It would be the very essence of borderline stalking and personal disrespect. Besides, a bedroom says a lot about a person. If nice and tidy, it could make a lasting impression and have you signing up to a lifetime of wedded bliss. If utterly disgusting, it could have you running screaming for the hills. I sit down on the sofa and stare at the wall. I can’t put on the TV because it will make a noise.
A few minutes of me drumming my Shellac nails on the table go by. I get back up again and pace the length of the trailer. There’s not an inch unused. Every surface is multipurpose. Shelves flip up, hidden drawers pull out, the sofa is also a bed, the bench is also storage. It’s so clever. I wonder how big the bedroom is in terms of square footage. Just from a professional point of view. Not that I’m thinking of leaving teaching and retraining as an interior designer any time soon. But what’s the harm in peeking? Just a little look. I reach out to push the door open when the trailer door rattles suddenly, and two loud voices begin talking outside.
‘Is Cameron in?’ someone shouts before banging on the trailer door. ‘Cameron? CAMERON?’
‘I’ll look through the window,’ I hear a man reply.
I barely have time to dive onto the bedroom floor as I swiftly pull the duvet down over my head.
‘No one in there. I can’t really see for the blinds. I’ll go round the back and you knock again.’ He thumps so loudly it shakes the whole trailer causing me to jump with fright. I only just manage not to shriek and pull the duvet further down to cover me thoroughly.
‘He’s not in. We need to make a judgement call. Come over here.’
I hear the sound of footsteps right outside the bedroom and the two voices lower substantially. ‘We don’t have to tell him.’
‘No. I disagree, Gram. I think we do have tell him, otherwise what if they find out?’
‘How will they find out? Only you and me know, and the idiot who put the camera up in the wrong spot. He’ll be off-site and away by now anyway.’
‘True, but if the producers find out there’s a blind spot and the contestants realise it’s there, then we are fucked. You know what Porscha is like. She’s got microphones in every toilet, shower, nook and cranny. She’s even got them hidden in the bushes in case any of them try to have a quick snog without her seeing.’
Toilets? Bushes?
‘Either we come clean and put production back three or four days, or we keep quiet and pray no one notices. There’s only a square metre of blind spot where neither camera nor microphone will pick up. I could even put a recycle bin there. Who would sneak round the back of the beach hut to have bin-sex anyway? It’s not like it’s an actual alleyway.’
Who has bin-sex down alleyways? Is this a thing? Is this what contestants do?
‘Doubt they’ll recycle either. Good plan. That’s what we’ll do.’
