Who's Calling The Shots?. Jennifer Rae
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it go with Max, boss?’ Mick was a man of few words, but he had an eye for entertainment and was one of the best editors in the business. For a man of such little drama, he knew how to produce one.
‘Excellent. Couldn’t have gone better,’ Jack lied. ‘But I’ve been thinking about the format for the show. I know we were going to introduce the men later in the show, once the girls have had a chance to get to know each other, but I think we should move it forward.’
Mick remained silent.
‘Bring the men in and have them decide what challenges they want the girls to do. Have them call the shots so they can decide which girls they want to take on dates. And I think we should cut it back to only four men. That way the girls will have to fight for a chance to meet their perfect match.’
Mick looked thoughtful. He stood still, moving only his head to stare out of the window behind Jack. Jack was used to him by now. He knew what he was doing. Thinking. He gave him a few minutes.
‘Female audience are not gonna like it,’ Mick finally said in his quiet voice.
‘Exactly. They’ll hate it. They’ll rage and be indignant and it’ll be all over social media. It’s a genius idea.’
Jack knew the female audience would hate it. He wasn’t even sure if it was a great idea. But he needed this show to be a hit. He needed it to work and work quickly—he couldn’t afford for anything to happen like last time. This time he was going to be brutal. He was going to call the shots. He was going to create a drama-filled show that had people tuning in every week. This show was about ratings—not about the people on the show. He had to remember that.
Slowly Mick faced Jack and a stern furrow formed on his weathered forehead. ‘They’ll kill you.’
They would. They’d slam him in the media. They’d call him a misogynist pig. He wondered how the contestants would react to the change. It was within his rights to change the format. He’d written it into the contract. Reality TV was like that—it needed to be fluid and reactive.
And the girls might not understand—they might have questions. He’d go and see them after this. He was sure he’d be able to win them over—he’d deliberately chosen women he could mould and shape. Except that one. Ms Wright. She hadn’t seemed very malleable. Gorgeous. Great mouth. Insane body. But not malleable. No, if anyone was going to jack up about this new twist it would be her.
‘That little firecracker won’t like it,’ Jack admitted.
Mick grunted. ‘I told you not to put her on the show. I knew she’d be trouble.’
Brooke Wright was the only contestant Mick had objected to. He’d said she’d be trouble, would cause problems and make their job harder. And he had been right. She’d protested from the beginning—not wanting to be on the show, then grumbling when he’d informed them they wouldn’t have any contact with their friends and families during the entire six weeks of taping. But she was nothing he couldn’t handle. He had learned how to charm women years ago. His father had been his mentor.
‘Tell ’em what they want to hear,’ his father would say. ‘Then do whatever the hell you want anyway!’
He’d always laugh after that. Jack never had. Not when it came to his mother. But after a few awkward ‘falling in love with a girl who didn’t love him’ moments back in high school he’d started to use his father’s tactics. And it had worked. Since then he’d been able to get women to do what he wanted—mostly.
Ms Wright, however, might prove to be a bit of a challenge. She tended to get into his personal space. She was a little too confrontational. To be honest, she made him a little uncomfortable. But she wasn’t there for him. She was there for the show—to make it a hit. Maybe this would be perfect. This new twist would send her into a new flutter and he’d catch it all on camera. It would be just what he needed.
He pushed down the small flutter of guilt that settled in his chest. He needed to work out the details and amend their choice of men. But first he had to supervise the taping of the first challenge. This time he was going to be there for everything. All the on-camera highlights as well as the off-camera drama. This time he wasn’t missing a thing—because this time was his last.
‘Tell Gaz to bring the car around, Mick—we’re going to see the ladies.’
* * *
She could do this. She knew she could do this. It was like lifting heavy weights. Ninety per cent mental, ten per cent physical. All she had to do was believe she could paddle out past the crashing waves, stand up on a thin piece of timber and balance while avoiding sharks and the tumble of the constantly moving water, all the while making sure she kept a smile on her face and her bikini top up—because at least eight cameras were set up on the beach and on jet skis to capture every fall, every failure and every embarrassing facial expression.
Yep, she could do this. For sure. Absolutely. Brooke hitched up the strap of her candy-red Wright Sports bikini and pushed a large ball of nervous energy back down her throat.
She’d never been surfing. It seemed like just another sport to fail at, and her balance wasn’t great even on solid ground, so she’d never been tempted to try. But now she had to go out there. Because her crazy sisters thought her coming on this show was their most cunning scheme ever.
‘It’ll be so good for you, Brooky.’
‘It’ll help you come out of your shell.’
‘People will love you.’
‘Imagine what it will do for the brand!’
And the last and most irritating comment of all: ‘You might meet your Mr Right.’
She wasn’t interested in meeting Mr Right. Or Mr Wrong. She was interested in meeting this month’s sales targets. And besides, if Mr Right were out there she was pretty sure he wouldn’t be on a surfboard. She had always been more into quiet, sensitive, musician-types. They got her. Those carefree athletic types were way too into themselves even to attempt to get her.
‘OK, ladies. On your boards.’
The tall, broad-shouldered instructor was hurling instructions at the twelve women lined up on the beach. At least he got to wear a wetsuit. Brooke pulled the skimpy fabric to cover up more of her breasts. She’d already argued with the producer over this. Why were they lined up like sheep at a sale yard? Why couldn’t they wear wetsuits? Wright Sports made an amazing one, lined with the highest quality Neoprene.
But the producer, Jack Douglas, had done what he always did. Smiled. Turned on his deep, calm voice. His ‘you’re crazy and I need to calm you down’ voice. Stepped back, away from her, and brushed her off.
She was sure she’d got a little red-faced when she’d argued with him about it, but he’d ignored her concerns. Told her that viewers wanted the full beach scene. And then he’d had the hide to tell her she had an amazing body and she should be proud to show it off. Which was totally not the point.
But arguing had been useless. Before too much longer he’d pulled out the old ‘you’re under contract, sweetheart’ card and walked away. So she’d lost. Again. And now she was lined up like a horse in the ring at the Melbourne Cup, awkwardly turning away every time she noticed a camera swivelling towards her butt cheeks.
Most of the other girls didn’t seem to care a fig. They were on their boards, laughing, joking—jumping up and down so their bountiful breasts bounced in the sunlight. Brooke’s breasts didn’t bounce—they were way too small for that—but she did try to smile. For her sisters. For the brand. For her family’s business. For the most important people in her life.
That was why she was here, she reminded herself as she heaved the huge board up under her arm and wrapped her fingers tightly around the edge.
Brooke grimaced to the girl on her left—Katy, she remembered. Katy the Lawyer, with her long shiny dark hair and big soulful eyes.
‘Let’s