Page 9 of Unscripted

The whole thing was ridiculous, like some Toddlers and Tiaras pageant on steroids, but at least I was so focused on not face planting down the runway that I didn’t have much energy left to be nervous or dwell on the fact that this was how the British public would be meeting me for the very first time.

Trying to be a good sport about the experience, I summoned my inner Gisele Bündchen, imagining myself as the world's top supermodel, and gave it my all. And gave it my all. And gave it my all again until the director yelled “Cut!” after take twenty.

It had quickly become clear to me and the entire production staff that I was not a natural on the runway. On one take I bumped into the large heart, which, practically speaking, was rather narrow to walk through, and sent it tumbling backward. During the next, my heel punctured the kiddie pool and the whole shoot had to hold for thirty minutes while someone from the props department located and inflated a backup pool. On takes ten through fifteen, I nearly broke my neck slipping on the plastic rose petals strewn across the already precarious runway.

My lack of coordination, coupled with the string bikini that wouldn’t stop riding up my butt and the thick fake eyelashes the makeup team had insisted I wear, wasn’t helping the situation or my frustration. If it hadn’t already been apparent that I wasn’t cut out for this, that I was in over my head, one look at my footage from the day would make it painfully obvious.

I tried to swallow down the panic simmering in my chest and simply focus on one take at a time.

The shoot’s director was telling me that I needed to “find my light,” which I knew from experience was ridiculous because it was not my job to find the light but the Director of Photography’s job to have the light find me. I was about to tell him that when Harry, sensing my dwindling patience, cut me off.

“I think that’s probably enough takes. We got some good bits, and they can edit it all together. It’ll be grand.”

By some miracle, or perhaps simply an equal exhaustion with me, the director agreed and called for wrap.

I was thrilled. My stress and anxiety could take a break for the time being.

Carefully, in the four-inch heels that were mostly to blame for my inability to walk in a straight line, I teetered down the runway’s steps and off set.

A production assistant was hovering just behind camera with a robe for me to put on over my bikini. As the young PA held out the pink terry cloth garment, I looked at her and froze. She was simply standing there, wearing a headset plugged into a walkie-talkie that sat at her hip, the robe in one hand and a stack of crumpled call sheets in the other, and yet the sight of her sent a jolt down my spine.

It was like looking into a mirror image of my past self.

I had just been her, an eager PA, two weeks ago. I had been the one running errands on set. I used to fetch things. I was the one who held out the robe.

Now I was the one receiving it.

“Poppy?” Harry questioned, confused why I had gone completely immobile.

“Yes, sorry,” I said to him, snapping back into reality and grabbing the robe from the PA’s outstretched hand. “Thank you so much.”

I tried to convey all the gratitude that I had. Gratitude I knew she might not get a lot of the rest of the day, into those four words.

“Of course,” she replied, looking at me like I was deranged.

Best to keep my emotional turmoil to myself, then. It was too much to explain anyway, too much to get into with people I had just met. How could I even begin to convey that this was both all new to me and yet strikingly familiar at the same time?

“Right,” I said, shoving down the existential crisis I was teetering on the edge of and following Harry off set and into the studio’s maze of hallways. “What’s next?”

“Testimonials, which is just me asking you a bunch of questions about yourself, your dating life, what you’re most looking forward to in the villa. It’ll be super easy.”

At the mention of my dating history, my gut tightened. Here it was, the part of the show I was dreading the most; the part I had spent the least amount of time preparing for, despite knowing it was the whole point and that I would have to talk about it eventually.

Harry continued to chatter away while I tried to get myself in check and come up with a game plan. There were parts of my past that were off limits. I refused to discuss my ex or the circumstances that led to our breakup. I hadn’t told anyone, not my parents or friends, what had really happened between us.

The British viewing public at large would definitely not be the first to know all those details. Instead, I would simply gloss over that part of my life and focus on anything else. I could come up with light and fluffy answers that would make great soundbites for the editors to piece together. I had done my homework on the show; I knew what they would be looking for.

“Just one note,” Harry said as we approached a door that led to another set. “Cecilia, the show’s executive producer, will be sitting in on your testimonial. She’s nice, as far as EP’s go, so nothing to worry about but just be aware.”

“Got it,” I said, plastering on a smile. I would definitely need to tread lightly if the EP was watching. I’d imagine that to be the head of a successful dating show, one would have to have a nose for sniffing out the drama.

Keep it light and fluffy, I repeated to myself.

Harry gave me a slight nod before pushing open the door. This studio space was smaller than the last, but what it lacked in square footage it certainly made up for in decor.

A giant wall of neon hearts, lit up in various shades of reds and pinks, towered in the middle of set. In front of it were two six-foot-high plastic palm trees wrapped in twinkle lights. Between the trees was a metal stool that Harry was gesturing for me to sit on. I wasn’t sure what exactly the art department was going for in designing the interview setup, but what did I know? The show was a smash hit, tacky décor and all.

Wiggling around on the stool, I tried to get comfortable as hair and makeup artists descended on me, powdering my nose and fluffing my hair. Soon enough, they stripped away my robe and scurried off set, leaving me alone with nothing but the cold metal under my butt and the soft hum of the neon lights behind me.