Page 23 of Unscripted

It was a relief to have solid actions to focus on, directions to follow. My mind could latch on to something other than worry.

I nodded down to Cecilia. “Got it,” I told her.

“Good. After this, it won’t be so orchestrated, but we just need to get the opening right, and then you can relax and enjoy the villa,” she said.

She nodded at me and walked back to the director’s chair in front of the monitors. She sat down and picked up her phone, immediately typing away on it.

I had a feeling that was as much encouragement as one would ever get from Cecilia. Remembering what Harry had told me about her not saying a word to a previous contestant she didn’t like, I took it as a win for myself that she had been the one to explain things to me.

One of the guys who had also been sitting around the monitors began calling out directions to everyone around me. “Cameras up!” he shouted.

A wave of anxiety, coupled with a tinge of excitement, rolled through me. It had been a slow push to this moment, to the exact point when my journey on the show would officially begin. I had been marking time over the last few days in anticipation of this. When the cameras turned on and my role began. When it all became real and not some wild, hypothetical scenario I had been ragged with worry about. Now that it was really happening, I almost didn’t know what to do.

I took a deep breath and steadied myself on top of the convertible.

The car engine roared to life as someone called out, “Rolling!”

With a jolt, the car lurched forward.

I sat up straight and let it drive me to my new reality.

13

The convertible carried me up the gravel driveway and came to a stop in front of the villa. Two Steadicam operators were stationed on either side of the front door, ready and waiting to film my grand entrance.

Trying to keep my shoulders back and legs together, as to not accidentally flash the entire United Kingdom, I scooted across the edge of the car and hopped off.

My eyes darted between the cameramen, waiting for any kind of instruction to be called out. I had been expecting at least a producer off camera directing the shoot, but as I continued to stand there, I was only met with silence and the sound of the car idling behind me.

Realizing it was all on me, I took a step forward.

Walking in heels over gravel was not an experience I particularly enjoyed, but knowing the cameras were rolling gave me a sort of laser focus on my steps, and I fixated on simply getting myself across the driveway.

Zeroing in on the door ahead, I headed toward it in what I hoped was a graceful stride. I could sense the cameras on either side of me, tracking my every move. I let out a tiny exhale of relief when I finally made it to the front door, pulled it open and walked through.

I was immediately struck by the view. The entryway opened directly into a massive sitting room. Floor-to-ceiling windows covered the wall at the back of the room, showcasing an expansive view of the villa’s backyard and the sea beyond.

The entire house was either made of white marble or covered in a variety of white fabrics, making the blue of the distant sea water all the more vibrant.

Suddenly, a voice that seemed to come from both sides of me as well as from above, spoke out. I almost jumped out of my skin; it was so startling.

“That was great, Poppy. If you could just walk back outside and take the steps up again, we’ll get you from the front angle,” the female voice instructed.

I was so thrown off by the voice sounding out from seemingly nowhere that my body went on autopilot, and my feet carried me back outside. The cameramen repositioned themselves in the open doorway, ready to film me walking up the stairs and into the house head-on.

For the second time, I crossed the gravel driveway, traipsed up the front steps, and walked through the entryway. At some point between the first and second takes of my entrance, adrenaline had kicked in, and I was feeling pretty solid. I could barely even tell my feet were throbbing in pain.

The same voice as before sounded again, and when I looked around for the source, I discovered there were two speakers mounted on the ceiling above the entryway. That must be how production communicated with the cast without intruding on set.

“Good take, Poppy. We’ll move on to your interior entrance. Cameras are going to reset. If you could walk straight ahead to the couches and take a seat, that’d be grand.”

The cameramen repositioned themselves on either side of me.

“Action, Poppy,” the voice called out. It didn’t sound like Cecilia, so it must have been another producer in the Hut, watching the live camera feed. It was fascinating that someone could remotely direct the shoot. The production-obsessed side of my brain wished I could be there to witness it. I’d take the cramped, chaotic energy of the production house over the pristine villa any day.

Shaking off my career daydream, I set my shoulders back, stepped forward through the entryway, down two short steps into the sitting room, and to one of the white leather couches.

I perched on the edge of the couch, crossed my legs, and tried to maintain my best posture. My eyes darted around the space, seeing it yet not really registering anything; I was too focused on what to do next. I had followed the producer’s instructions, so now what? No one called “Cut,” and the cameras were still focused on me.