We move away from the model and the cameraman shoots a wider angle of the barn, where all the tools I own, borrowed, or rented are lined up, ready for action. The reality of the situation hits me. Here I am, caught on film with this woman by my side. She is literally leading this production and what the hell am I going to do when she’s gone? The camera is like an eye that stares at you, and I know that if I had to be its sole focus, without someone else to take over, it would be another screw-up. And what if they miss her next week and ask questions?
“You didn’t know each other before this competition?” the presenter asks. “As such you two are a composite team, right?”
Again, the camera is on me and all I can do is nod and then shake my head.
“I’m here from Miami to build this tiny house, which is a dream come true for me.”
An elbow pokes my ribs and I croak, “Same here.”
“I bet you’ll both know each other pretty well before this competition is over,” the producer says with a touch of snark. “As they say, nothing like building a house together to test any relationship.”
Dry chuckles from Georgiana make me grimace at the camera. Har de har har.
“What is the first thing you’re going to tackle this week on the project?” the producer asks.
The frame? Obviously? The floor? The walls? But my mouth feels like it’s filled with spray foam insulation that has nowhere to go. Again, Georgiana takes over and when she’s finished her spiel, there’s a pregnant pause.
The producer raises his hand. “Cut.”
The cameraman steps away, and I breathe as he seems to check whether they recorded everything or to switch the damn thing off.
“Right.” The presenter sighs after another minute of silence, during which he studies us, one at a time. “She’s got something going here that’s good. Bubbly, pretty without make-up, all that jazz. But overall, that sucked big time. Hopefully we’ll have something to cut and splice together, but yowza, you two need to work on your on-screen chemistry, for God only knows, this is a ship that’s sinking. Sour doesn’t make for good TV, and we only want good TV.” He pulls a packet of cigarettes from his ass pocket, and lights one uninvited as he stares at me, one eye closed as the smoke burns with his first drag. “The bedhead works on you, but frankly, shower next time. Don’t be hung over, and for my sake, don’t be late next week. This schedule is going to be the death of me.”
He turns and walks off, and I’m rooted to the spot as I watch them exit the barn, second-hand smoke filtering up my nose. Georgiana follows, for once also stunned into silence.
I’m still rattled and stare blandly into the interior of my tiny house model, recalling her voice as she explained everything in detail, seeming to know exactly what she was talking about. Saving the day and saving my ass at the same time.
It dawns on me that Georgiana is perfect for these weekly filming sessions that I can’t sidestep. It might be pure evil to keep her on only for the TV show, use her only for that, but there’s no way I can do any of that on my own.
I have that sinking feeling that all those chickens have come home to roost at the same time. There’s a sound of wheels spitting gravel, and when Georgiana walks back into the barn seconds later, I look up to meet her gaze, ready to face the firing squad.
“‘Polymer clay, I made it with.’ What the hell, Raiden? Is that literally all you could say? For the whole bloody twenty minutes they trailed after us? It was one awkward silence after the next. Could you just try?” Her eyes are wide and big and sea-storm grey, and for a moment there I’m losing myself in them. Then she drags in a deep breath and raises her hands in defeat. “Forget the whole bit about buying me a plane ticket back to Miami. I’ll be getting my own. Hasta la vista, baby.”
8
GEORGIANA
The massive barn has shrunk to matchbox size as I feel Raiden’s gaze burning on my back. I’m marching away because I’m so angry that all I want to do is to get away from him.
He doesn’t try to stop me. We failed to discuss anything yesterday and he never mentioned to me that this whole business involved getting filmed for some random B-grade TV show. To say I was surprised when the crew showed up on the barn’s threshold at nine in the morning is an understatement. And we will be here every Tuesday until the project’s done.
And we have to work on our on-screen chemistry? What a joke.
All I want to do is go to that shack, pack my things and head back to where I came from. Whether I’ll be welcome at home or not, I’ll deal with that when I get there.
My car keys are still in my shorts pocket, and with the boathouse only five minutes away, I’ll go there first and come back for my laptop later once I’ve cooled off. One minute more in Raiden’s company and I might strangle him.
His massive black truck is blocking my exit, but I reverse and maneuver until I can squeeze past. As I drive off, I spot him leaning against the barn’s doorjamb, hands stuffed in his jeans pockets, looking as if he hasn’t got a freaking care in the world.
Asshole.
The road is a green blur through my angry tears. I’m in no condition to drive and am grateful when the turn-off to the Brodies’ farm appears. Back at the boathouse, I park my car and pause a moment to breathe and take in the beauty of the lake and forest that line the water’s edge.
All I wanted was one project away from Mom, Dad, and their business before I signed my life away to Wess & Rover and worked for them forever. That’s what’s expected; that’s what every other grateful child would do when she’s going to inherit a multi-million-dollar company. Although after that massive fight, I’ve probably been disinherited. I’m on my own. The thought is sobering. On the way here it fueled my determination, but now, alone in the big wide world, I feel insecure and not up to the challenge.
Dad is still in the Bahamas, but I’m sure he’s been filled in by now and knows about my every infraction. He hasn’t bothered to catch up with me yet and I’m not in the right frame of mind to reach out to him either. At the current rate, I’m never going to be in the right frame of mind.
I take one final deep breath before I get out of the car. At least I didn’t spot May or Bill Brodie on my way here, as I’d hate to disappoint them already by leaving. They were so kind to me this morning, and whatever family relation this asshole Raiden Logan is to them, it has to be very, very far removed.