Who's Calling The Shots?

‘Maddy...’ Brooke started, her voice normal again. ‘You’re crazy. That’s an awfully long shot.’

‘It’s perfect PR—you even said it yourself at the marketing pow-wow last month. You don’t have to tell anyone to buy our products—you just show them how fabulous they look and how well they work and be your amazing self and they will sell themselves.’

Maddy was really working overtime. Brooke could tell she was passionate about this, and she could also tell her sister was working hard to get her excited. But Brooke wasn’t buying it.

‘Maddy! Listen to yourself. This is ridiculous!’

‘No, it’s not.’ Maddy said, her voice calm, strong and matter-of-fact. ‘It’s genius. I’m a genius. Wright Sports is poised for world domination, little sister.’

‘You’re not a genius—you’re a madwoman. First of all, if you want someone to model the clothes to make women aspire to be like them, you should have chosen Melissa. She’s the long-legged, big-boobed beauty in the family. Or even Melody—she’s cute and perky and blonde and fun! I’m short and I have a forgettable face and my mouth is too wide.’

Maddy attempted to interject but Brooke held up a hand.

‘I don’t need you to compliment me, Maddy, which I know you were going to do. I’m just stating facts here. And reason number two why this plan is absolutely bonkers: women will only aspire to be like me if I successfully seduce a man. Which I won’t. I can’t flirt, I’m awkward and boring, and I am really bad at competing. I’m the only one in this family who hasn’t won a gold medal in something. And even if I don’t fail every challenge I’m sure my appointed “perfect match” will probably kill me in my sleep. You’ve got the wrong girl, Maddy. Me being me will do more damage to the brand than good.’

‘Why do you do that, Brooky?’ Maddy asked gently.

Brooke bristled. ‘I’m not doing anything besides telling you what a terrible idea this is.’

‘Brooke, you’re beautiful and talented and fabulous. You’ll win every challenge and your perfect match will fall for you—just like the entire country will when they see you on the telly. You’re exactly the right girl. I knew you’d get it—why do you think I made you come along with me?’

‘Maddy, I don’t need any of your motivational nonsense right now.’

‘It’s not motivational nonsense. As a matter of fact...’ Maddy moved away to go back behind her desk. She drew herself up to her full five foot nine and stared straight at her little sister. ‘I think this will be good for you. You need to put yourself out there. It’s time you got yourself a man.’

Brooke rolled her eyes. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard this lecture. Her four sisters were always telling her she needed to go out more, be more social—meet new people. But the truth was she liked being alone. It was safer that way. She liked her quiet nights in and she didn’t need a man bothering her with his opinions and demands...and his lies and broken promises.

‘I don’t want a man, Maddy.’

‘Brooke. It’s time you got over Mitch. It’s been twelve months.’

Brooke felt the familiar burn of tears in the backs of her eyes. Mitch. Even the sound of his name felt like sandpaper rubbing on foam.

‘I’m over him, Maddy.’ She heard her voice go quiet. She wished it hadn’t. She didn’t want her sisters to worry about her. She was over Mitch. Of course she was. Why wouldn’t she be? Like Maddy said—it had been twelve months.

Something caught in Brooke’s throat. Twelve months since she’d decided not to put up with another one of his lies. Twelve months of thinking about all the things she’d say to him if she ever saw him. Something hurt in Brooke’s chest. She wasn’t in love with Mitch any more, but the anger about what he’d done was still there. She’d tried everything—yoga, meditation, drinking some disgusting concoction Melody called ‘calm juice’—but the feeling was still there. A hard ball of anger she couldn’t seem to shake.

‘It’s clear you’re not, Brooke. You don’t go out; you don’t want to meet anyone new. You just sit at home listening to sad music or working out like a demon. Honestly, babe, we’re worried about you. You need this. More than me. More than the brand. You need to do something to break you out of this rut.’

Brooke breathed out heavily. She was in a rut. It was true. But she was happy in her rut. Happy to push herself to her limits at the family-owned gym and happy to work herself ragged as marketing manager for her family’s company.

She excelled at her job. It was the only time she’d ever been close to competing with her sisters. Micky, the second oldest, was the country’s leading female equestrian at only twenty, Melody was in line to join their sister Melissa at the next Commonwealth Games, while Maddy, the most successful of all, was a former gold medallist.

Brooke had just achieved her personal best number of pull-ups in a row at the gym. Five. Pathetic. At only four foot nine, and barely fifty-two kilograms, Brooke was smaller, weaker and so much less remarkable than her sisters. But she was very good at data and statistics and predicting trends.

Since leaving school six years ago she’d managed to help Maddy take their company from a fledgling gym and activewear business to an award-winning national brand, with seventeen retail stores across the country and a dozen new lines ranging from home workout gear to protein powders. But times were tough. Money was tight. And to move to the next level—which they’d all decided it was time for—they needed to up their game.

Publicity. Recognition. That was what they needed. Brooke knew it. But they’d planned for Maddy to get on to this stupid TV programme—Brooke had gone there for moral support and some sort of pathetic back-up on the off-chance Maddy didn’t get it. Brooke hadn’t doubted for a second that Maddy would get in. Maddy always won everything... Except this time.

And now, in some cruel, unexpected twist of fate, Brooke was expected to expose herself on a reality show based on the ridiculous premise that there was a Perfect Match out there for everyone. But Brooke knew what she had to do. She had no choice. This was her family’s future and it was in her hands. Every team she’d ever been on had dumped her, due to her pathetic athletic ability, but her sisters never had. They’d always been there for her. From that first day.

‘OK, I’ll do it.’

Maddy came around the desk to throw herself at Brooke, but Brooke held her back with an arm.

‘I’m going to hate every second, I’m going to regret this with every atom in my tiny body, but I’ll do it. For you. And Micky and M’Liss and Melody.’

Maddy smiled her brilliant white smile and pulled her in for a giant hug. ‘You might be surprised, little sister—you might end up loving every minute.’

Brooke pulled her face into a massive frown as she was squashed into Maddy’s chest, knowing deep, deep down that there was no way in hell she was going to enjoy any minute of this humiliating and utterly absurd experience.

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.