This Careless Life

Liv inspected her nails throughout the section on ‘disclaimers and exclusions’. Rubbed at a faint scuff mark on the side of her sandal during ‘investigative access’. Listened to Duff crick his neck from side to side while Cass droned on about ‘post-interview courses of action’. Whatever that meant. Duff yawned and tapped his finger against the plastic clipboard. The rhythm wormed its way into Liv’s brain: get on with it . . . get on with it . . . get on with –

‘This is the last one, I promise,’ Cass said, reeling Liv out of her trance. Caught mid-yawn, she coughed unconvincingly and pasted on her hanging-on-every-syllable expression, a look she’d recently perfected thanks to Hetty’s adoring-boyfriend-monologues.

‘I understand if I choose to withdraw from today’s audition process, the entire team will be disqualified.’

‘All in or all out,’ Jez murmured.

‘Exactly. So . . .’

Cass mimed ticking the box.

Next to Liv, Hetty stopped chewing the end of her pen and tilted her head to one side. ‘What if we do get chosen and then one of us wants to drop out later on?’

What?

Snapped out of her relaxed state, Liv cast her friend a shut up glare and quickly clarified. ‘I think what Hetty means is if someone is ill or has an accident.’

‘Still, it’s a valid question.’ Cass held up a finger. ‘Bear with me one second . . .’

There was a pause while Cass rummaged through her beautiful Pandora. Liv nudged Hetty, urgently mouthing, ‘Don’t say drop out. ’

Before Hetty could respond, Cass withdrew something with a flourish.

‘Aha. I knew it was in there somewhere. Hope you don’t mind, but I like to make some notes by hand. Helps me keep things straight in my mind.’

It was a notebook bound in battered red leather, somewhere between A4 and A5 in size and held together with a fraying ribbon. Cass pulled one end and, as the bow unravelled, the thick book crackled open.

Quirky. The yellowed pages reminded Liv of those junior-school projects where you recreated the Magna Carta by wiping ye olde wet teabag across ye olde history homework. Unexpected that this fashion-savvy woman with her sleek tech and leather Pandora would even possess such an ancient piece of tat. What next, a quill?

‘Kind of old school, I realise,’ Cass continued, ‘but I’d be lost without it; I’ve had it for years. Centuries even. Anyway, where were we? Oh yes. Dropping out.’

She cracked the notebook’s spine, smoothing the pages flat with her long tanned fingers as though she were ironing it.

‘Once this process is underway, the last thing anyone needs is to chop and change. We need everyone fully on board, otherwise it just won’t work. Honestly, there’d be no shame in calling it quits at this stage, Hetty.’

Oh God. Liv could have sworn her heart actually stopped beating. Please, please, please don’t bail. I need this so bad.

‘We’re all committed, one million per cent, honestly. I swear. She just –’

Liv hadn’t got to the end of the sentence before the sofa creaked at Jez’s sudden movement.

Bracing his hands on his knees, he said, ‘Liv, Hetty is entirely capable of speaking for herself, if only you’d give her the opportunity to –’

‘Thanks, guys, but you don’t need to worry about me. I’m not going to quit,’ Hetty interrupted quietly, but with an unmistakeable undercurrent of determination.

‘Fantastic. So glad to hear it,’ Cass said, drumming on the notepad, rat-a-tat-tat, with a glance up at the clock. ‘Two seconds more while I jot this down.’

Liv exchanged an anxious glance with Hetty who gave an almost imperceptible shrug in return. Well, I can ask, can’t I? it seemed to say.

What was Cass writing? From across the room, it was impossible to decipher the tiny black squiggles crawling across the page. Was she ‘jotting down’ Hetty is a flake ?

Whatever it was, Het’s question had tapped right into the nagging she can’t hack this that had been buzzing round Liv’s skull for the last three weeks like a wasp. Much as Liv loved her friend, she had to admit that when she first read the Pretty Vacant pop-up, Hetty’s name hadn’t exactly leapt to mind. To be brutally honest, it hadn’t even crawled.

It had been the day after her History A-level exam (her last ever exam). A day that dawned on a clear sky of limitless future possibilities . . . for everyone else anyway. For Liv, it reverberated with the slam of a thousand doors.

She’d tried.

And as Results Day would undoubtedly prove, she’d quite spectacularly failed.

Liv woke to the sound of hailstones hitting her bedroom skylight like ping-pong balls shot from a celestial cannon. Bleary-eyed, she stared up at the grey-black clouds pressing themselves against the glass, billowing portents of doom.

Summer holidays. Ha ha ha.

With a sigh, she fired up her Mac, rolling her finger over the touchpad to open the footage she’d been editing and re-editing until the early hours. Crucial stuff, this: her final video before the National Beauty Blogger Awards.

And it was absolutely vital she nailed the pitch. Last year, she’d lost out on Most Inspirational Newcomer to that suck-up extraordinaire, Sonya Sunshine. A thought that almost twelve months later still made her want to puke. Or punch something. Preferably Sonya.

The Cinderella Project was Sonya’s baby: sourcing prom dresses to donate to teenagers living in poverty. Or as Liv preferred to call it, a pathetically transparent attempt to win votes.

Seriously, how dumb would you have to be not to get that?

As dumb as a National Beauty Blogger Awards judge apparently.

Well, this year Liv had been nominated again, and this year she was coming home with it. No way could she politely clap again while Sonya delivered a vomit-inducing speech accessorised with fake tan, fake nails and even faker tears.

She’d rather die.

But with her crossed fingers about to press upload, the screen flashed and a pop-up appeared.

CASTING CALL

If you’re over 18 and you’ve just left school, Pretty Vacant Productions could be about to offer YOU the opportunity of a lifetime!

Visit www.pvp.tv.org to find out more!

Liv’s heart pounded as she clicked on the link.

Well, hello!

Your A levels are history, you’ve kicked the dust of the schoolyard from your shoes and left your cares at the gates. Results Day, uni places . . . they’re just specks on your horizon. We’re talking freedom, baby. The freedom to live your life without a care. Freedom you’ll never experience again. This summer is YOUR summer.

The lowdown: we need FOUR friends to be the stars of This Careless Life, Pretty Vacant Productions’ new six-week special. PERSONALITY plus, that’s top of our wishlist.

Before you apply, remember we have some PRETTY strict guidelines. So if every individual can answer a massive Yeah, baby! to the following questions, then PLEASE drop a 60-second video HERE explaining WHY we should choose YOU.

Are you 18?

Have you just finished A levels?

Are you in the UK between July 1st and August 31st?

And above all: will the nation’s 16- to 25-year-olds LOVE you or love to HATE you?

So if you’d LOVE to share your outrageous, uber-exciting or totally ridiculously INCREDIBLE post-school/pre-uni summer . . . get in touch now!

‘Yes, I’m 18! Yes, A Levels! Yes, I am in the UK!’ Liv murmured to the screen. ‘And love me, they will all love me.’

And just like that a whole new door, one she hadn’t known even existed, had flown open.

Choosing three friends? That was a no-brainer. Or at least it would have been, except with the exams done, Freyja, Scarlett and Touko had departed St Benedict’s and jetted home to Brazil, Russia and Japan. Meaning Liv had to fish from a much smaller pond solely stocked with weekly boarders, and local ones at that.

Liv frowned, tapping her forefinger against her lips. Only two days until the closing date for entries. Who was still around? Who would inspire both love and hate?

Jeremiah Livingston? Head boy and all-round good guy. He’d be up for anything to promote his charity stuff for Connecting Together. And Declan Duffy, naturally. With his plus-size ego a-gogo, he’d do anything to promote himself. That left one more . . .

Letting the nation analyse six weeks of your life? Really, Liv only mentioned it because she thought Hetty might be able to suggest someone. So when – unbelievably – Hets had shrugged the suggestion, ‘How about me?’ Liv’s jaw dropped so fast it bruised her kneecaps.

‘You serious?’ she said, failing to hide her shock.

‘I’ll have to check with Duncan,’ Hetty replied, ‘but I’m sure he’ll say it’s a brilliant idea.’

What’s it got to do with him?

Liv hid the retort behind a beaming smile.

In gaining a boyfriend, Hetty had apparently excised her decision-making lobe. Ever since she hooked up with him, all you got from her was Let me check with Duncan. I’ll have to ask Duncan.

Still, His Royal Duncan-ness graciously granted his permission, and with Duff, Jez and Hetty on board, Team Liv was ready to roll.

Amazing how the pieces just fell into place. Perhaps if Liv were the kind of girl who believed in horoscopes and all that destiny crap, she might have called it fate.

But waiting to find out if they’d got through? Well, that was every childhood Christmas Eve squished into one tortured ball of anticipation, frustration and panic. Come on. Come ON.

Until finally, on a day she’d planned to spend wrapped in a cocoon of duvet and misery trying to forget she’d ever even met him . . . the phone rang and on the other end was Tony from Pretty Vacant Productions saying congratulations, they’d reached the final three and were they all still up for it?

Liv had immediately flung back the duvet, palmed a night’s worth of tears from her cheeks and assured him that yes, she wanted this so bad. In fact, she literally could not want this more. Yes, they were free for the casting on July 1st. And yes, her friends would be literally ecstatic to be through to the next stage.

When the phone call ended, she flopped back down on the bed, gripping the phone like a lucky charm while Tony’s question bounced round her head.

Was she up for it?

Liv was up for many things.

She was up for not obsessing over her A-level results.

She was up for making her parents realise uni was not the only option.

And she was definitely up for being a TV star.

But on the day of Tony’s phone call, she was mainly up for never, ever shedding a single tear over a man for as long as she lived.

Things were about to change. She knew it.

‘Your whole life is about to change. ’

She felt the whisper of breath; sensed a light grip on her shoulder; a body close to hers. A drift of Eau de Expensive Whatever-it-was enveloped her.

Except . . .

Liv blinked.

How did –?

Cass hadn’t moved. Definitely not. There she was, immaculate in white, still leaning over the worktop with the now deflated Pandora sagging by her elbow. Notebook completely open; mouth completely shut.

Liv wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing at the sudden ripple of goosebumps.

What the –?

Her mind frantically scrabbled to latch on to any explanation other than I am cracking up, but then Cass put her pen down and looked directly at her.

‘Exciting, isn’t it? Knowing today could be life-changing.’

Liv nodded. Stunned.

‘Yes.’ Jez put on his mature I-am-leader voice. ‘And on behalf of all of us, I’d like to say thank you for this incredible opportunity.’

‘My pleasure,’ Cass said. ‘I’ve got a great feeling about you guys.’ The dark curtain of her hair swayed as she turned her head towards the wall clock. ‘Let’s push on. Now I’m going to focus on one person at a time; show your application video followed by a group conversation.’

She stepped forward and with a collective wriggle they all straightened against the button-backed sofa. Attentive. Ready. Even Duff slouched marginally less.

From where Liv sat, still dazed, some proportional illusion made it seem as though Cass were towering over them. When she spoke, far from a whisper, her voice filled the room.

‘With that in mind, what I need you to understand is this process is tougher than you might think. There’ll be questions you may not want to answer and answers you certainly won’t like. By the end, you’ll feel drained, emotionally and mentally. Maybe you’ll decide you’re not up to it. Maybe you’ll decide you’re happy the way you are now. But if you go ahead, you’ll be rewarded with an opportunity to change your lives forever.’

Your whole life is about to change.

The mysterious whisper echoed in Liv’s mind. Too much caffeine, too little sleep. That was it. And stress. Exam stress, prom stress, HIM stress. Who wouldn’t lose the plot with all that going on?

Her ears were playing tricks on her, that was all. Liv shook her head slightly as though fending off a mosquito and focused her attention on Cass, who was holding a printout of the contract up in front of her chest.

‘Pep talk over. Now it’s time for you all to sign on the dotted line, which you will find in this box . . .’ She pointed a beautifully polished fingernail at the space in the bottom left corner. ‘Here.’

Liv complied, capping her pen almost before Cass finished her sentence. She kept her hands occupied by unfastening and re-knotting the belt on her silk jumpsuit, tying it in a floppy bow on her left hip.

Next to her, Duff scrawled his signature, the pen scratching as it looped extravagantly across the bottom of the page, refusing to be constrained by the box. Hetty’s ponytail bobbed as she wrote tidy, blocky letters in the allotted space.

What was Jez playing at?

With a dismayed glance, Liv noticed him hesitate, the groove in his forehead deepening while his hand hovered.

Get on with it . . .

‘Jez?’ Cass prompted gently.

He frowned. ‘I need clarification on a few points before I can commit.’

Liv’s heart sank. Oh God, what now? Jez Livingston. Undoubtedly the loveliest of guys in a multitude of ways, but very, very occasionally (like now) so pedantic he made her want to claw his smug face off.

‘Fire away,’ Cass said, glancing down at her book.

‘I understand the audition won’t be made public, but how much control do we have over what happens next?’

For a start, that wasn’t even Jez’s own voice. Too deep. He’d borrowed it off his dad, trying his courtroom act on for size.

‘Complete control of what you say and do,’ Cass answered.

‘But do we have the right to veto?’ Judge Jez continued, pompously. ‘If the footage is edited to present us . . . unsympathetically?’

Liv’s toes clenched in her sandals.

Shut up!

Cass raised her palms in a conciliatory gesture.

‘Look, I promise no one is going to judge or humiliate you. My sole remit is to get you to show yourselves and what you’re about within these four rather lovely walls. After that it’s your call: you can take this opportunity forward or you can pretend I was never here. No one will be forcing you to do anything.’

Jez pursed his lips and continued channelling his inner Yoda.

Most monumental arse I am.

Liv twisted her hair into a ponytail then let it fan over one shoulder. Duff dragged his palms down his face with an exaggerated sigh, drum-drum-drumming his heels on the floor.

And then – finally! – Jez signed his name.

‘You’d better get used to autographs.’ Cass said, plucking the form from his hands.

The tension popped like a balloon. Liv’s laughter bordered on hysteria.

‘Anything else before we start?’

‘Yes,’ Liv said, delving down the side of the sofa. She brandished her selfie stick. ‘One tiny thing. Please could we take a team selfie?’

‘If you make it very quick,’ Cass replied.

Jez shook his head and gave a disapproving tut.

‘Honestly, you’re addicted. Olivia Dawson-Hill and The Stick of Narcissus. Cass, I apologise, I realise you don’t have time for this.’

Cheek! Liv was about to tell Jez where he could shove both the stick and his comments when Cass burst in to a melodic peal of laughter.

‘Stick of Narcissus. Very good. I love that. Very appropriate.’

She was still grinning broadly when Liv took the picture. Four friends with their glamorous visitor beaming in the middle. Cass turned to click-clack back to the laptop and Liv quickly uploaded the image.

#topsecret #fingerscrossed #ohmygodohmygod #lifechanging

‘Phone off now, please,’ Cass said, glancing at the notebook. ‘And we really need to make a start. You’re first, Liv.’

Liv’s heart gave a tight squeeze. Show time!

‘One sec.’

She smoothed the ends of her shiny dark hair down en route to the mirror. Grimacing at her reflection, she ran her tongue over her teeth and a practised finger over both immaculately threaded eyebrows.

‘Ready?’

Liv nodded, cleared her throat. ‘I’m ready.’

2 LIV

1 July, 10.28 a.m.

‘Eeek. Cringe.’ Liv peeped at the TV through splayed fingers. ‘What an absolute hound.’

The image showed her frozen in the act of kissing a red-soled shoe; the exposed brick of the coach-house wall visible behind her.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Hetty said, reaching over to pull Liv’s hands away from her face. ‘You look beautiful, just like always.’

Truthfully? Hetty was right. OK, Dad’s nose loomed large (so unfair he refused to let her have surgery), but the rest of it . . . skin, hair, eyes. Perfect.

‘This is the video from the start, guys,’ came Cass’s voice from the corner. ‘I’ve got high hopes for you, Liv.’

She pressed a button and the caption Olivia Dawson-Hill Pretty Vacant Productions #1 appeared on the screen. Liv swished her silky hair to the other side and leaned forward, propelled by anticipation. The atmosphere reminded her of the opening night of a play or a film premiere, that same tension crackling like static in the air. The expectant expressions.

Then they were all looking at her face on the TV (hair, good; make-up, great). No trace of her dad’s flat, northern vowels in the voice that filtered through the speakers.

Olivia Dawson-Hill Pretty Vacant Productions #1

Hi, everyone [waves]. My name is Olivia Dawson-Hill, but my friends call me Liv. This is my application for This Careless Life.

OK, so I’ll start with my favourite topic: me! I’ve just left school, finished my A levels [pulls face] and waiting for the results in August [closes eyes, sighs noisily]. Don’t ask. But the things you really need to know about me are: I literally live for fashion and beauty. I swear, without shopping, I would die. Look. [Camera turns to film room and image jerks through into another.]

This is my bedroom [camera pans over white walls, oak beams] and this [flings door open, automatic spotlights shine on rails of clothing] isn’t all of it either; I’ve got another wardrobe in my old room over in my parents’ side of the house.

And of course ta-daaaa! Shoes . . . [Camera zooms up and down on tiered storage. Liv’s hand appears to take a pair, lifts the still-attached price tag] £200. [Laughs.] Not even been worn. I can’t help it; I’m a shoe-aholic.

[Buries her face in the shoes, inhales deeply] Aaah, happiness is . . . the smell of new shoes. And new lipsticks, new clothes, new handbags . . . [laughs]

[Camera POV returns to Liv.] So why should you pick me? That’s easy! You want personality plus and I can give you that. I’m great on camera. I’ve got my own beauty vlog . . . maybe you’ve heard of it? Miss Olivia Loves? I’m on target for a million subscribers across my channels by the end of this month. Crazy, isn’t it? All the major brands are contacting me, sending me samples. It literally is a full-time commitment; I’ve worked so hard. And I got nominated at the Beauty Blogger Awards last year for Most Inspirational Newcomer. I didn’t win [laughs] but the party was In. Cred. Ible. One of the best nights of my life. I’ll remember it as long as I live.

What else? [Looks at ceiling.] Oh yeah. Money. We’re, like, seriously minted. My dad has an agricultural business and my mum breeds racehorses of the Grand-National-winning kind. We’ve got this place [pans camera round]. Well, this is all mine. Mum and Dad have got the big house next door. Then we’ve got one in the South of France, where I’ll be going in a few weeks, unless you pick me for the show [laughs].

So [camera back on Liv, counts off points on fingers] I look good, I sound good and my life is outrageous so please please pretty please, Pretty Vacant, put me and my team through to the next round. You won’t regret it. Mwah! [Blows kiss at screen.] Sorry if that was more than sixty seconds! [Leaning forward.] Mwah!

Cass pressed pause, leaving Liv’s cherry-red lips suspended mid-pucker on the screen.

Just out of shot were the lamps fitted with diffusing bulbs she’d bought from a theatrical accessories website. Insanely expensive, but judging by the results, worth it. The slight golden tone cast a filter-free I-just-got-back-from-St-Tropez glow on her skin and popped her green eyes; added a glossy sheen to her long dark hair.

Totally worth it.

The air fluttered around her: Duff had risen to his knees and was flapping both hands in mock-hysteria.

There were times when Duff made Liv laugh until her lungs ached and tears poured down her cheeks. Now was not one of them.

‘Fashion is my life,’ he squeaked breathlessly.

‘Shut up.’

‘Shoes! Handbags! Make-up!’

‘Shut up !’

Liv rammed a velvet cushion in his face, not quite muffling his falsetto cries.

‘Cut me and I bleed lip gloss!’ Fending her off he emerged red-faced, choking on stray feathers and his own hilarious words. He wrestled the cushion from her, threw it along the sofa, narrowly missing Jez, and strolled up to the mirror.

‘Cass, don’t be fooled by this vapid display. Liv’s not dumb. And she’s not that shallow.’ He dragged his fingers through his mussed-up hair and continued thoughtfully. ‘Well, obviously she is shallow, but she’s not that shallow, if you get my drift.’

Liv blew out her cheeks. ‘Cass, everyone, please ignore Idiot Boy,’ she said, more harshly than she’d intended.

‘Hey, I’m defending you here,’ Duff protested, tucking in then re-tucking his shirt.

‘Don’t worry,’ Jez said, handing her the cushion. ‘You can get your own back when it’s his turn.’

‘She loves me really. She just can’t admit it. Can you, Liv?’

‘Yeah, sure I do. Totally,’ she deadpanned in return, crossing her legs.

Duff slumped back on the sofa, putting an arm around her. ‘I’ve known Liv since she was four years old, Cass. And I can tell you she’s got hidden depths. Very secret depths.’

What?

She recoiled, pushing him away. ‘What are you on about?’

‘Take no notice of him,’ Hetty said quietly, placing a gentle hand on her knee. ‘He’s winding you up.’