Page 26 of Unscripted

Gemma’s face was currently gracing the cover of almost every tabloid I’d passed in the market during my time in England. A model turned television presenter, she had been London’s favorite “It Girl” for the past year.

She was also the brand-new host of Bella Amore, having only just been announced a few weeks ago.

She walked toward us, her caramel hair softly flowing out around her, and I was struck by the realization that she might be the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in real life. And I’d once worked a commercial shoot with Angelina Jolie.

The two cameramen, who had merely lingered in the doorway while shooting our entrances, followed Gemma all the way into the villa. One trailed behind her while the other tracked along her left side. I knew without a doubt as I watched it in real time that they would cut the footage into a showstopping entrance montage. It would kill on TV.

Gemma stopped at the top of the stairs leading down to the sitting room, popping her leg out and resting her hands on her hips.

The rest of the girls beside me were in equal states of awe, all stunned into silence.

“Hello ladies, you alright?” she said, her voice smooth and velvety.

We all nodded. No one was sure exactly what, if anything, to reply.

“Welcome to your first official day in the Bella Amore villa!”

That seemed to snap Chiara out of whatever spell we were all under, as she yelled out a “Woo hoo!” in reply and thrust her glass into the air. It did the trick to break the ice, and we all clinked glasses and shouted out our own cheers.

“Now, if you’ll follow me, there are some very excited gentlemen waiting to meet you just outside,” Gemma said, motioning us to follow her.

Here it was, the part I had been resolutely avoiding thinking about despite it being the whole point of the show.

Boys.

Dating.

Putting myself out there again.

My stomach sank at the thought of growing close to someone, of opening myself up to the possibility of connection. I was over my ex; had mourned our relationship and the future we would never have. But there were some hurts I couldn't erase, some wounds that left their mark long after the dust had settled. I wasn’t sure I could ever forget what had happened between us and the pain it caused.

But now I was in the unique position where my job stability depended directly on me doing the one thing I was loathe to do: dating. Not the slow, taking it easy and getting-to- know-each-other type of dating either, but the fast, lightning-bolt-of-energy kind the viewers at home wanted to see.

I would not be afforded the luxury of time to sort things out. I had to adapt, had to figure out a way to play the Bella Amore game without sacrificing the parts of me I was still piecing back together.

I refused to allow myself to get hurt again, that much I was certain of, but that didn’t mean I had to become a nun and never talk to a man again. I would just focus on keeping it fun and light and surface level. My storyline didn’t need to be the most romantic of the season; it just needed to be interesting enough to keep me here as long as possible.

Trying to get my head in the game, I stood up from the couch and looped my arm through Chiara’s.

“I hope at least one of them's a bit of me!” she said.

“A bit of what?” I asked, not sure if I had heard her correctly.

“A bit of me!” she repeated.

She must have seen the confusion on my face because she immediately burst into laughter and patted my arm.

“Oh babes, do they not say that in America? It means someone who’s my type,” she explained.

“Yes, of course,” I said, filing away the phrase to remember for later.

We followed Gemma down the hallway to the left of the sitting room, first passing a staircase, which I knew from watching the show led up to the large communal bedroom, and then continuing past a rounded door frame. The actual door had been removed, likely to keep us contestants in constant line of sight on camera. Peeking in, I was excited to find that this was the “glam room” the girls would get ready in every day. Red neon heart signs hung on the walls, and the ceiling had massive studio lights affixed to it, covering the room’s real light fixtures and professionally lighting the space so it would look good on camera. It was one of the places where the cast members spent most of their time, so it made sense they would light it like a studio.

Scenes in the dressing room were the ones I had most enjoyed during my binge watch, seeing the girls primping for the cocktail parties each night and then talking about what had happened after while getting ready for bed. It was also where most of the crying happened, since it was a safe space for just the women to use. I clocked the loveseat in the corner, ready and waiting for one of us to tearfully break down in it.

Not pausing to give us a tour or say anything about the house that was now our home, Gemma continued past the glam room to a door at the very end of the corridor. She stopped in front of it, waiting for the cameras around her to settle into place. Once they did, she looked over her shoulder and winked at them before pushing the door open.

All I could see beyond was the bright light of the sun reflecting off the greenery of a tall shrub. Following the line of girls in front of me, I stepped out into the warm afternoon air and onto a teak walkway, boxed in on either side by tall green shrubbery that formed a catwalk-like tunnel out to the yard. Market lights laced across the tops of the shrubs, and a large neon sign hung in the middle of the path reading “This Way to Love.”