The runner instructs me to sit down. ‘The thing is, once these are on, it’s so difficult to get them back off. All the buckle straps are at the back, see? You’ll have to get one of the girls in the villa to help you.’
‘Otherwise, I’m stuck in them until I’m dumped from the Island?’ I joke, close to tears. Images of me having to sleep standing up in them flash into my mind.
‘Yeah, pretty much.’
After a lot of complex criss-cross strapping, tutting, buckling and refastening and pulling straps tight across my thighs, I am finally helped to my feet.
‘Christ Almighty. It’s like wearing a pair of stilts. I’m over six feet in these. I can’t even stand in them never mind walk,’ I say wobbling around. The runner stands up beside me. I am now towering over her. And while my legs look like they’d belong on a giraffe, I do rather look like I charge by the hour.
‘They’re too high. Take them off. I’d rather go bare foot,’ I bark. ‘I will break a leg if I take one step outside of this villa in these strappy chopsticks. I am not some dominatrix about to go all Fifty Shades on those poor men!’
We are both startled by a loud clipping and clacking sound.
‘AND CUT. That was great.’
My jaw hits the floor as two camera operators emerge from behind a hidden screen in the far corner of the room with cameras and microphone booms.
‘And now if you’ll follow us to the car. We’re on a very tight schedule. We’ll film you getting into the car and saying something like how excited you are to be going into the Love on the Island villa to cause mayhem as the first bombshell. If you could wink at camera, do a peace sign, and stick your tongue out that would be awesome.’
In a daze, I whimper, ‘You mean like a slutty British villain?’
‘Yes, exactly. Perfect.’
A sinking feeling sweeps through my bones. They are going to edit out all the bits where I say I’m not going to be a man-eating troublemaker and edit in all the bits that suggest I will be.
There’s only one thing worse than a semi-naked dominatrix, and that’s a drowned-looking semi-naked dominatrix. Halfway to the villa the sky grew dark and around half of Mexico’s yearly rainfall is currently falling from the sky. We pull up outside the property and wait for the huge electric security gates to open. I look up at the giant walls hiding the villa from sight. The huge gates, locked to keep out prying paparazzi, loom high above us. The driver does about a thousand checks on a walkie talkie to confirm that yes he has the ‘package’ and that yes the ‘package’ is ready to go. The metal gates eventually slide open to allow us in.
‘I can’t go out in this. I will literally kill myself getting from the car to the catwalk,’ I say, pointing to the rivers of mud between me and the flimsy planks of wood that have a big silver heart at the end for me to walk through. ‘I won’t do it. I won’t.’
My runner isn’t listening. My runner is talking into her headset. She is making the following noises on repeat. ‘Uh huh’, ‘yup’, ’got it’, ‘uh huh’, ‘yup’ and so on. Suddenly, the rain stops, she leans over me and opens the car door.
‘Go now!’ she bellows. ‘GO! Now, now, now! Before the rain starts again!’
After she shoves me off the seat, I am standing outside the vehicle wondering how to hop over the pools of muddy water that pave the way to the catwalk. The heat is sweltering, sending rivers of sweat down my cleavage. I wipe my forehead with the back of my arm. I blow out my cheeks. This is like an obstaclecourse. A movement startles me. I glance over to see some branches shaking in a nearby bush. I’m reminded that my every movement is being closely monitored and recorded.
I slap on a bright smile and take the first of what turn out to be many slips and slides. At one point I am almost doing the splits. I can hear loud gasps coming from the bush as I pick my way to the catwalk. My six-inch razor-sharp heels gather clumps of grassy mud with each step. When I finally reach the catwalk there’s an audible groan of relief. I straighten up. This is so bloody weird.
I glance down once again to my outfit. My outlandish doll-sized stripper monokini. I have mud splats up my legs. My toes are filthy. And I have half the fake lawn attached to my heels.
‘Wait just a second,’ I say to the invisible people hiding in the bush. I hear a tutting sound and choose to ignore it. ‘I’ll just try to wipe some of this mud off.’
‘NO TIME! WALK IN FIVE, FOUR, THREE…’ The voice trails off and I obediently begin my walk of shame down the catwalk towards the big silver heart. I put one sky-scraping heel down carefully at a time. I’m almost at the heart when the sky grows dark. I scamper as best I can to the end.
I see five gorgeous couples sitting in a semi-circle by the firepit. They all have grins stuck to their faces. The show’s presenter, Destiny, half woman half fringe, is looking absolutely fabulous and DRY. She announces me as theLove on the Islandbombshell, from beneath the safety of a gazebo which is successfully covering the firepit and all the contestants. The words have barely left her lips when the heavens open yet again, and what feels like a bucket of water lands on my head knocking me clean off the catwalk.
In an instant, the downpour has magically stopped. With the help of my runner, who also got caught in the deluge, I slip andslide my way to a standing position, which is not easy in these death traps strapped to my legs.
‘CUT!’ Porscha bellows, striding over to me. ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING?’ She doesn’t even wait for me to answer. She swivels around with what looks like a smirk on her face.
‘FROM THE TOP!’
Another runner comes over to help me back onto the catwalk and, between them, they wipe what mud they can, from my legs and arms. One of them flicks my wet hair from my face. I see her glance briefly at my breasts. She is trying not to look alarmed, but her eyes are telling a different story.
I look down. The monokini is all but see-through. My nipples are like two champagne corks trying to burst through.
Shitting hell.
But it isn’t until she is reattaching the microphone pack onto the back of my waist, that she lets out an audible gasp.
