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Chapter Three

What am I doing thinking about men, and especially Damon, when this night is meant to celebrate friendship and freedom?

I should know by now just the mention of these guys brings me down.

I reflect on all the silly things I’ve done to get their attention – including letting Sam spike me because I was too preoccupied to check what I was swallowing.

Aren’t these stupid pills meant to make you happy anyway?

When’s the ecstasy part of this pill going to kick in?

So far, all I’ve felt is like I’m going to puke.

I’ve got to fix this. This can’t be how this night goes.

So, the lads aren’t coming. So what? There’s got to be something I can do to turn this night around.

After all, we’ve got a literal treasure chest full of booze, our own roped off area that everyone’s dying to be invited to and tomorrow, our show is going to hit the screens and we’re going to be overnight celebrities.

That’s what the producers tell us, anyway.

They say they show is rocket fuel – and that we’ll be proper famous, like can’t go to the shop for a pint of milk famous. We need to celebrate this moment.

I shout to Madison, tell her we have to go find Layla, the other girl who made it to the finals with me.

After all the so-called ‘Dump Days’, there were just four of us left in the last month – me, Layla, Damon and Marc.

And our host Samantha of course. Can’t forget her – she loved the power of being the one who saw all the footage, who got to announce the name of the dumped housemate, and make her trademark jokes about all the wild stuff we got up to, although I swear sometimes she was just a teensy bit jealous of the fact we were the ones with all the air time.

I scan the crowd for Layla, who’s like the mam of the group. She gets trollied like the rest of us, but is always on hand to hold our hair back when we think we’re going to be sick, cook us a fry-up when we get home and offer bits of advice, like “never trust a man with small hands.”

Layla’s at the bar, chatting up some lads that are twice her size.

At five-foot-nothing she’s a pint-glass of a girl, with these big blue eyes that are impossible to stay mad at for long.

Not that anyone ever really gets mad at Layla, from the moment she stepped into the house we all adored her.

“I can’t find Samantha anywhere,” Layla’s saying now.

“She promised one of these lads some action and I don’t think I can handle both,” she winks at them, before carrying on. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“Exactly where you left us, you’re not that short to have missed us,” Madison says, but when I look over, towards our booth, all I can see is fake vines, a rubber python and a sea of heads that blur before my eyes. “Samantha’s gone home, though.”

“What?” I say. “But she gave me this big speech about not being boring and making this a wild night?” Not to mention the other thing she gave me. Although I realise now I’ve been a fool.

Layla and Madison both just shrug. We stopped long ago trying to guess Samantha’s next move at any given time.

When we arrived for our first cast and crew briefing, I was in just a tiny pair of frayed denim hotpants and a faded t-shirt, holding a case with god-knows-what flung in, and she had, I kid you not, four huge matching designer cases full of bandeau dresses, heels, shimmery tops and belt-like miniskirts.

But sometimes classiness is just a topcoat – as filming went on she would regularly blow her lid, at any small thing.

One of the guys who left early had a soft spot for her, but Samantha was the queen of Play-It-Cool, like a stereotypical lad.

Sam was all ‘don’t catch feelings’ while this lad, Reed, followed her around like a puppy dog.

Until he got the boot in the final dumping.

How’s it all going to look to the audience, I wonder?

I’ve lived it – but I’ve no idea how it will all look onscreen.

I work out what the strange feeling in my stomach is – it’s not the cocktails, and I don’t think it’s Sam’s stupid pill.

It’s anxiety. Tomorrow morning the critics will watch our show – decide how many stars they’ll assign us in their reviews – and tomorrow night, well, the world watches us.

Or maybe they won’t? Right now, I can’t work out which is worse – everyone I know watching me get wasted and snog Damon on national telly…

or everyone ignoring us? My mam tells me not to get my knickers in a twist – she says I should know what’s expected to air, as I was the one they were filming.

But that’s the magic of TV – you really do forget about the cameras after a while, and then there’s the editing…

It’s been eight weeks of non-stop partying and to be honest, it’s all a bit blurry, considering we were getting mortal pretty much every night.

But I loved it. We could get into any club we fancied, the drinks were free, everyone wanted to be our friend as, even though the show hasn’t aired yet, if you rock up with a camera crew people know that you’re a somebody and (what pleased my mam the most) the producers arranged our cabs home.

Though, back home was when the real trouble began, when we’d all pile into the hot tub or, if we’d got lucky, would head up to the penthouse.

We called it private time, but nothing was ever really private in the house.

I look at the girls and suddenly just stop worrying.

After all, I’m in a club with my two best mates, legends the pair of them, and they look so pretty, there’s this soft gleaming light falling on our faces and, is it just me, or does this fake ivy just really bring out the colour in everyone’s eyes?

There’s something so beautiful about it all, it properly does feel like I’m in the jungle.

And the floor! It’s all shimmering and glowing, just like my future could be.

If the last eight weeks were just a taste of how great the next few months will be, I’m determined.

“We’ve made it,” I say to Layla and Madison, gripping their arms. “Seriously, girls, I love you so much! This isn’t just the end of the season.

This is the beginning of an incredible journey! ”

We squeal and they pull me into the most blissful hug. I just feel so happy, like nothing in the world could ever possibly go wrong. Is this what confidence feels like? Or maybe this is what ecstasy feels like…

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