Читать книгу Who's Calling The Shots? - Jennifer Rae - Страница 10

TWO

Jack schooled his features into something more gentlemanly. His father’s face beamed at him from the big screen TV.

‘He’s a quality unit, Jack. He can make a hit out of anything. I want you to do anything you can to help him out.’

The hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stood erect. It was happening again. Just like last time. Just like every damn time. And, just like last time, he wanted to hit someone. Preferably his father. But since his father was on the screen, not there in person, he’d do more damage to himself and probably have to fork out for a new TV. Not smart.

‘I’ve got it sorted, Max. I don’t need any help.’ He kept his tone low and calm.

‘Now, don’t go getting your knickers in a knot, Jacko. Rob Gunn is not there to take over. He’s a hit-maker—you should be relieved he’s coming on board.’

His father never kept his voice low and calm. When Jack was younger, he’d thought of his father as some kind of god-like Santa Claus. He was big and loud and jolly, and he would fly back home laden with gifts for his only child. He hadn’t seen him often, so when he had Jack would hang on every word and lap up any attention he could get. But Jack wasn’t a child any more, and he could see his father for what he was. And he no longer believed in Santa Claus.

‘Mick and I have this under control. Anyone else joining would just make it messy...’

Jack’s father held up a big, beefy sun-reddened hand. ‘Like you and Mick had it “under control” last time? We can’t afford another stuff-up like that, Jack. I’ve told you—’

Jack knew his father hated being interrupted. It was one of the few things they had in common. Which was why Jack did it. That, and the fact that his father was moving into uncomfortable territory.

‘Max, I told you it’s under control. I don’t need your hotshot. What happened last time won’t happen again. Trust me.’

Jack watched as his father’s face turned redder, which made his grey hair burn even brighter. Not for the first time during this conversation Jack noticed how old his father was looking. His normally round cheeks were drooping, his fleshy nose was covered in purple veins and his hair looked even thinner and greyer than normal. Jack felt an unusual flash of sympathy for the man. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since he’d grown up and realised that this loud, full-of-life man was an overbearing bully. Jack shook it off. If his father had taught him anything it was to eradicate any emotions when you were talking business.

‘You listen to me, boy. I’ve lined this bloke up to help you. It’s all about you. Like everything I do—trying to keep your head above water. Trying to keep you afloat. Do you have any idea how much your last little mistake cost our company?’

Jack knew exactly how much it had cost. He’d been at every meeting. He’d gone through every figure with the accountants and he’d earned back every penny. But there was no use telling his father that. From the look on his face Jack knew the steam train had already left the station. The old man was about to blow and Jack was going to cop it—big-time.

‘I started from nothing to build this company, boy. Nothing. You have no idea of the things I did to make this company what it is today. And I did it for you. So you would be left with something rather than nothing—like I was.’

Jack leaned back in his chair. He was going to be there a long time. He’d heard this story so many times he could predict what his father was going to say next.

‘And what have you done to repay me? Drugs. Women. Wild parties. Deadbeat mates. You haven’t appreciated anything. I gave you the best of everything—the greatest opportunities. Any kid would gnaw off their right arm to be handed the position of Executive Producer for all our media, the way you were, and what have you done to repay me?’

Jack mouthed the words along with him, knowing full well his father was too blind with his own indignation to notice.

‘You’ve produced a string of reality shows that have ended in fights and lawsuits and disaster. I can tell you now, boy, that’s not going to happen again. Not on my watch. This time you’d better get it right or you can kiss your inheritance goodbye.’

Jack sighed. ‘Like I’ve said to you a thousand times, Dad—I don’t want your money. I don’t need your money.’

His father’s heavy breaths could be heard through the speakers. Jack saw him knock against the computer he was speaking into, losing his balance a little. Max’s lips pursed and released, then pursed and released again. He was thinking. Jack could practically see the old man’s mind ticking behind his eyes.

‘Maybe not, Jacko. Maybe you would be able to make a few measly bucks on your own. But how ’bout your mother? What would happen to her, Jack, if I were to shut up shop, take my money and run?’

And there was the stinger. It pierced Jack’s gut and lodged there. Jack’s father only had one weapon left to use against Jack. His mother. Who was still in love with his father, for some reason Jack couldn’t understand. His mother—who would be devastated if she found out how much Max didn’t care for her any more.

Jack knew exactly what his father meant. At the moment everything Max had—everything he knew about, anyway—was fifty per cent owned by Jack’s mother. But when Jack had discovered his father was having an affair fifteen years ago and threatened to tell his mother Max had told him he’d leave his mother with nothing if he did. He’d made Jack realise how powerless he was and then produced a contract saying he had to stay with the media arm of his father’s company until he earned enough money to buy his way out of it.

At nineteen, he’d thought it would be easy. But after station cutbacks, a fall in the economy and a cultural shift towards reality TV, Jack had barely covered costs each year. Perfect Match was his chance. It had trialled well in market research and the time was right. Dating shows were rating through the roof, and he’d already had a few bites to syndicate it in the US, the UK and India. This show was his ticket out of here—away from his father and the hold he had over him. But until then his father owned him, and he knew it.

‘What’s that, Jack? Your smart mouth can’t come up with anything intelligent to say?’

Jack’s blood sizzled but he held his face steady. He was getting too old for this. He needed to take control—one way or another. He needed to get his father out of his life, and today was going to be the start.

‘I’m running this company. I’m in charge. Not you. Goodbye, Max.’

Jack pressed the button that would end the video call. His father’s face disappeared. This show would be a hit. And when it was he’d pay his father his money and he’d never look back. And when he’d made his own money his mother wouldn’t need his father either. They could both escape from his cage.

‘Mick, I need you in here, my friend.’ Jack spoke into his phone, his voice back to its low, calm tone.

Mick didn’t need to know about that conversation. The crew were jumpy enough as it was, with all the rumours flying around about Max pulling their funding. He didn’t need them thinking there would be any changes in management. He needed to keep this ship sailing steady.

‘How’d 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 hope the lifeguards are on duty,’ she quipped.

Katy smiled back. ‘Hopefully they’ll be cute, because I’m sure I’ll end up face-down in the sand.’

Brooke felt her shoulders relax. At least most of the other girls were friendly. Something about having to go through this all together had bonded them. That and the fact that the annoying producer had forced them to all live together in a Manly penthouse. As if they were a bevy of pets from the seventies and he was hoping for a little girl-on-girl action.

Brooke felt the steam rise again. At the fact that she was being filmed in a bikini on the beach, doing something she knew she was going to fail at. At the idea of being forced to compete with other women for the chance to go on a date with a man she hadn’t even met yet and was sure she wouldn’t like anyway. But mostly she fumed at the producer. Jack Douglas.

She knew all about Jack Douglas. After their first disastrous meeting she’d looked him up. The man had only got where he was because of his dear old dad. Although, to be honest, she was in her job because of her family, too. But that was different. Jack Douglas was, by all accounts, a womaniser, a publicity whore, a charming pig. And from what she’d seen all of that was true. Because—seriously—what type of man encouraged this type of sexist, voyeuristic television?

But what annoyed her the most about Jack Douglas was that every time she looked at him she moved. Inside. Deep down. Where she didn’t want to move. Especially not for him. But his jaw was so square and his eyes were so dark, and when he crossed his arms he stood tall and strong and so incredibly sexy...it moved her. And she couldn’t control it. And that annoyed her. She was so good at controlling herself. She’d taught herself how to control her temper a long time ago. She was now quiet and easygoing and Zen. But Jack Douglas was doing his best to upset her Zen.

‘Ladies! Looking beautiful, as always.’

And there he was. Tall, athletic, self-centred, small-minded. The exact opposite of her type. Brooke hadn’t had a drink all day, but right then she felt drunk. Drunk on her own indignation. Drunk on humiliation and drunk on the idea that there was no way she was getting out of this mess now she was in it.

‘We look stupid. We should be in wetsuits,’ Brooke fumed. Zen, she reminded herself, breathing deeply the way Maddy had taught her when she was young. Stay Zen.

Jack stopped and turned to her, looking at her as if he was surprised she was even there. Arrogant. Self-important. And he still managed to move her...again. Annoying.

‘Nonsense. It’s a beautiful, summer’s day in Manly. What you’re wearing is perfect. And you all look so good—why would you want to cover that up?’

Jack’s eyes were almost black in the sun. His hair was thick, with a slight wave at the front where it swept over as if he’d just run a hand through it. His cheekbones were high and his jaw was strong, but that wasn’t what made him sexy. It was the way he looked at her. His chin tilted up, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, his full lips together. Arrogant. Entitled. Confident. As if he was thinking about having sex with her right now.

He stood like a man who was aware of his own presence. He was physically intimidating and he knew it. And he was using that now. Despite the various...annoying...movements in her core, Brooke was aware of what he was doing and she wasn’t buying into it. He could stand there, all pouty and sexy and as manly as he wanted, but right now all Brooke saw was a snout and two piggy eyes.

‘Are you serious? I mean—did you actually say that?’ Heat rose up the back of Brooke’s neck and fizzed in her ears. She turned to the cameraman who was now getting closer to Katy’s breasts. ‘Did you get that? I mean—on film? Did you get that sexist, disgusting comment on tape?’

She turned back to Jack, who was standing with his hands in his pockets, his face blankly staring at her as if he had no idea what she was talking about.

‘Because that’s what the Australian public need to see. The extent of this man’s sexism and arrogance and...and piggishness.’

Her voice was getting higher. Her fists were in balls. She wasn’t even sure what she was saying. But a thought was forming in her head. That’s it! That was all she had to do! He wouldn’t put her on the telly if she was insulting and rude and...and honest! But then if he didn’t put her on the telly where would that leave Wright Sports?

Brooke tried to breathe. She tried to think. But her tongue had other ideas. ‘This whole show is a vulgar attempt to make women appear shallow and stupid and competitive. A way to prove this man’s theory that women are second-class citizens. Well—I won’t do it!’

Brooke dropped her surfboard and it made a satisfying thud in the sand.

‘And nor will anyone else. Will we, girls?’

Brooke turned to her fellow contestants. Her peeps. Her sisters from other misters. She expected them to crowd around her, fists raised, a cry of I am woman, hear me roar on their lips. Just as her real sisters would have. But instead eleven sets of long eyelashes blinked. A seagull swooped and made Contestant Number Four swat above her head. Someone coughed.

‘Right, girls?’

The girls were still blinking at her.

‘C’mon. We’re not going to let him get away with this, are we?’

Someone shuffled in the sand. Katy moved her surfboard from one side to the other.

‘We aren’t here to be ogled...’ Katy said quietly, hesitantly.

‘Yes! Exactly!’ Brooke let out a yell and pointed at Katy before turning back to Jack. ‘We’re not here to be ogled. Our Perfect Match won’t care what we look like. Not if he’s truly our perfect match. He won’t be attracted to big boobs or a small bum or be interested in the size of our thigh-gap. Love is more chemical than that. Love is more intuitive than that. Our perfect match will see through all that. He’ll be attracted to us because of our thoughts, our opinions... That’s what we should be showing. Our minds—not our butt cheeks.’

Jack nodded slowly. He pushed his lips together and his mouth turned down at the corners.

‘Is that right?’ He raised his eyebrows.

‘Yes!’

Brooke left her position to move and throw an arm around Katy. Katy was quite a bit taller than Brooke, so putting her arm around her was a little awkward, but they were banding together for a common good. There was nothing awkward about that.

‘That’s right—isn’t it, Katy?’

Katy didn’t speak, but she nodded. Slowly. Tentatively. But she definitely nodded.

Brooke squeezed her shoulder. ‘We won’t be paraded like cattle,’ Brooke said firmly.

‘Actually...’

Brooke’s head swivelled to face Alissa, a blonde-haired, big-boobed beauty who stood behind her.

‘I don’t mind being in a bikini. I mean—yes—I want my perfect match to want me for who I am, but I mean—a man’s got to have a little incentive.’ Alissa jiggled her boobs and giggled. ‘He is a man, after all.’

Brooke watched as the evolution of woman stepped back at least forty years.

‘She’s right...’ another big-bosomed beauty piped up. ‘We have to use what we have to attract them in the first place.’

‘You don’t want a man who’s attracted to you just for your looks!’ Brooke insisted.

‘No,’ said someone else. ‘But men are men, Brooke. They’re visual creatures. They have to like what they see.’

‘You’re missing the point.’ Brooke was feeling hot, and she knew she should probably stop but she couldn’t. She needed to say what she had to say. ‘Your perfect match will be attracted to you. To your face and your body and your eyes—and your bum. Not because it’s perfect, and not because it’s out on display. Think about it—when you’re attracted to someone you just are. You can’t help it. And it doesn’t matter if they have a crooked nose or thinning hair. When that chemical attraction takes hold all their imperfections are gorgeous. They make them who they are. You don’t see them as negatives—you see everything about them as gorgeous.’

‘That’s true, Brooke, and I’m not saying we’re all perfect. I’m saying that it doesn’t hurt to introduce the men to some of our...imperfections.’

Alissa smiled, but Brooke didn’t. She turned back to smug Jack Douglas and realised her mistake immediately. He was rocking on his heels with his hands in his pockets. Satisfied. Triumphant.

‘And, cut!’

Horrified, Brooke turned to face the camera now on her face. Jack sauntered towards her and came in closer than he ever had before, the heat of his skin making her cheeks burn.

‘Ratings gold.’

That deep, calm voice didn’t calm her this time. But it did make her whole body break out in a rash.

‘Good Job, Ms Wright.’

Then he moved back, smiled wide, turned and walked away—while eleven girls stood silently behind her and a lone camera beeped to indicate that it was back on and recording.