Winning the Alpha Read online

  My time away would be six weeks long, even if I was rejected on night one. Part of the agreement was that if I was eliminated immediately I’d be sequestered with the other reject-girls, presumably so that none of us could go blabbing to the press about what was going on in ‘the house.’ I loved how they called it that, when really it was most likely a giant recording studio. Whether we were sleeping there or not, it wasn’t likely to feel like a house so much as a demented hostel full of neurotic women. A psych ward, in other words.

  It was only after my meeting with the producers that I told my mother about the show. She was concerned, which meant, I supposed, that she was a decent mother.

  “You need to be especially careful,” she told me.

  “What does that mean, especially? More than the others?”

  “Yes. You’re not like them, Nikki.”

  Naturally, I took this to mean “You’re fat, Nikki.”

  “Gee, thanks mom.”

  “You know that’s not what I mean. What I’m saying is that I’ve seen these shows. The women will be there for all sorts of reasons, none of which have to do with their generosity and goodwill. You need to keep your head on straight. And for God’s sake, be careful of the man in question. Don’t let him hurt you. Men are wolves.”

  “Yes, and I suppose we women will be like a flock of sheep. Only I suspect that the girls will be more aggressive than the man himself. Rabid sheep with sharp teeth.”

  “I know you’re joking, but you’re probably right. Watch your back. I don’t want you to be hurt like…like I was.”

  Mentioning wolves and her own hurt was as close as my mother had ever come to telling me about my father’s departure, but the wolf analogy might have been a simple coincidence and I felt that I shouldn’t push her on the topic; I could hear the pain in her voice.

  I spent the week becoming accustomed to the idea of not having contact with the outside world; I wasn’t allowed to have my cell phone or to email anyone during my stay. I knew that I’d be on my own when it came to support and to preserving my ego. I also knew that it would be awfully hard to keep my self-esteem intact. Even a skinny, perfect woman would have trouble competing with so many others in what seemed like a competition to see who’s the most attractive. I had a suspicion that this sort of fabricated situation could cause serious mental breakdowns so I resolved to make it a study in human, and particularly female, psychology; to go in assuming that I’d lose but prepared to observe from afar and enjoy the ride.

  I talked to Kate a few times during the week for moral support.

  “Remember,” she said, “Any woman who plays head games, tries to make you feel bad, or insults you in any way isn’t worth your time. Don’t give in to their bullshit. And Tristan seems to like you a lot, so don’t be afraid to go to him if anyone gives you trouble. Think of him as a friend.”

  “He’s a friend with a lot of other friends, isn’t he? I’m sure all the women get along great with him. It’s not hard for a girl to fall for a gorgeous guy who’s charming, you know. I suspect that I’ll be competing for his attention as much as for whoever the single man is that we’re going to meet.”

  “Somehow I think you’re wrong. I saw how he talked to you and looked at you. He liked you a lot. And I have a feeling that under that friendly exterior there’s a pretty assertive man who does and takes what he wants. He’s not into superficial women, that one. And don’t be so hard on yourself, Nikki, or you’ll start off on the wrong foot.”

  “Okay, you’re right. I’ll try my best to be a good girl.”

  “I don’t care if you’re good. In fact, I’d rather see you stand up for yourself than be nice. Just be good to yourself.”

  “I will.”

  When the day finally came, I took the plane ticket I’d been sent and grabbed my bags, leaving my life behind me. My mother, who still had mixed feelings about this whole endeavour, wished me well and told me I could call her anytime.

  “You know I can’t. Not unless someone dies, so I’d rather not,” I told her. “But you’ll hear from me soon enough.”

  I grabbed a taxi and took off for the airport which was on the outskirts of town. My destination was a small mountain town called Wolf Rock, which sounded to me like the name of an isolated ski resort. I was excited by that; the image it conjured was of log cabins, crisp, clean air, and warm hearths. There was little as sexy as cuddling with twenty-four other women in front of a fireplace, after all.

  After the usual delay at the airport, an uneventful flight and a wait for my ride, I was brought to the locale where some initial meetings and preparations were to take place. I was immediately charmed by the scenery. The mountains that surrounded us as we drove were higher than any I’d ever seen in person. Their grey, rocky slopes were topped with perfectly placed white glaciers and snowy peaks, creating an impression of enormity and majesty which took my breath away.

  The air smelled pristine, and a scent of pine permeated the warm breeze that drifted by. Even in the car with the window sealed I was able to inhale it, knowing that I’d entered a new world, ready for whatever it had to offer me.

  We passed by charming cabins and the odd hiker, always sporting a gigantic pack and looking fit. You never saw overweight mountaineers. And they always had a contented look on their faces which indicated a sort of satisfaction at having hiked up a mountain and down again without being attacked by a bear or gotten kidnapped by a horny yeti.

  All in all, I was in love with the place and wondered if this was where Tristan made his home. I pictured winter months here with proper wood burning fireplaces and stoves, where one would sit and sip hot chocolate after a long day of skiing. I found my eyes glazing over as I pictured Tristan in a wool sweater and jeans, slightly sweaty and smelling of sex.

  As we drove into town I fell even more deeply in love with the place. The main street was lined with inviting shops, and tourists in sensible hiking gear walked up and down the sidewalk. It seemed ironic that they’d be clothed for strenuous hikes and yet wander in and out of fudge shops, sampling the wares before heading back to the hotel for a nap. But it created an environment in which no one appeared complacent; everyone was prepared in case they had to go running off into the woods should there an emergency like a zombie apocalypse. No doubt they all carried flint to start fires, protein bars and hand-cranked phone chargers.

  The plan for the day involved being taken to a first studio to prepare, before being brought in individual cars to the house that was to be our residence for the foreseeable future. I’d seen all this before on other shows so none of it surprised me. My real curiosity was to do with all the other girls; I wanted to know what they’d be like, and if I’d manage to get along with any of them. I tried to be nice in my mind and to assume that they weren’t all like the horrible snooty one I’d seen when I went to meet the producers. After all, I’d agreed to participate in this manufactured love fest, so there was a chance that there would be others like me.

  When I arrived at the makeshift studio which looked to me like nothing more than the local high school, the driver helped me get my suitcase out and I wheeled it into the building. I was guided then to a room where a few other girls were scattered in various corners, keeping very much to themselves. The space was large and uninteresting, and I assumed that its normal purpose was that of a gymnasium. Its ceiling was high and the room was poorly lit and cold, a stark contrast from the late summer warmth of the outdoors.

  I was one of the first to arrive; only about six girls were in the room when I entered. They were scattered throughout the space as far away from one another as they could get. I could tell that they were nervous by their body language, and this pleased me. But the thing I noticed immediately was that they were all thin. It was just what I’d feared, but I wasn’t exactly shocked to see it. I chose not to look any of them in the eye but I wasn’t going to stare apologetically at the floor, either: I simply waltzed in and took my place in the center of room, by a long table
which was coated in stacks of paper, a coffee maker and cups which demanded to be used.

  I woman I’d noticed in a far corner walked up to me while I poured a cup of coffee. I turned to her and smiled, pleased to see that she was grinning broadly at me. Her hair was long, red and curly and she had a lovely face.

  “I’m Julia,” she said, extending her hand. I took it gladly.

  “I’m Nikki,” I said.

  Julia leaned in and whispered, “Stay close to me. I think there are some serious bitches here.”

  I looked around. A couple of the women looked sour, but I wasn’t sure if it was a personality issue or pure fear.

  “I think they may be as scared of us as we are of them,” I said charitably.

  “You’re nicer than I am, Nikki,” said Julia. “I’m ready to brawl as soon as someone makes a snarky comment. When you came in, though, I liked the look of you. You’re the only one without a scowl on her face. But I suppose you’re right, I should give them a chance before I judge.”

  “Yeah, probably. But maybe I’m being too nice. I’m trying not to be too hard on anyone since I’d prefer not to be judged myself. When you’re less than skinny, people tend to make all sorts of assumptions about you.”

  “Well, I think you’re gorgeous. And believe it or not, people scrutinize redheads too.”

  I laughed then. “Well, you probably deserve it, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely,” she said. “We’re the bitchiest of them all.”

  Other women started filing in now, one after another. Soon enough the room was full of chattering females who’d lost their shyness and managed to break off almost immediately into small cliques. There were the blondes, of which I wasn’t a part for some bizarre reason; the brunettes, the rich ones (you could tell by the clothes since we’d all come in wearing our own) and what Julia called the plastics. Some of the last group overlapped with the blondes and the brunettes.

  Julia stuck by me as promised as we went around and introduced ourselves to the others. She was an aggressive, friendly girl, and very helpful to have around.

  We met several of the candidates. I immediately liked Diana, a dark-haired beauty who seemed gentle and sweet, and Bree, who was a brunette who seemed uninterested in the others of her ilk. Neither of them seemed to fit into the stereotypical notion of a reality show babe, though they were each very attractive.

  The ones who stood out immediately were the women who would no doubt become the show’s “villains.” There was one named Noelle, who had a permanent scowl on her face. When someone told her to cheer up she declared, “I’m not here to make friends.” I wanted to tell her to save her clichés for when the cameras were rolling. I pictured her at home practicing her lines: “No one comes between me and my man.” “The other girls don’t understand me; I’m really very nice in spite of the venom and forked tongue.” “My plastic surgeon is going to be the best man at our wedding.”

  The frozen-faced woman I’d seen at the production meeting was called Brittany, which was far too pretty a name for such a grumpy-looking girl. She didn’t seem to have anything to say to anyone, but finally sidled up next to a large-breasted plastic and seemed to want to make friends. I was almost surprised that she hadn’t tried to hang out by me; I would have thought that she would have liked to pose herself near a woman who might make her look extra-thin and extra-gorgeous. At one point I made eye contact with her, and she responded by simply narrowing her eyes at me. Well, at least those muscles worked. I simply stared back and smiled, and finally she turned her head away, flicking her long extensions as she did so.

  “Well, she’ll be the favourite for sure,” I said to Julia. “She’s one hundred percent fake and men seem to love that.”

  “Men on these shows, maybe. I’ve never met a man who’d rather have a handful of fake woman-flesh than a handful of real.”

  “Then I should make a lot of men’s hands very fucking happy,” I said.

  A young man I hadn’t seen before walked in when all the women had assembled. He was dressed in a suit and had the air of someone who knew how to enter a room with confidence. I assumed that he was going to be the host of the show, though I didn’t recognize him.

  He waved his hand, knowing that of course we were all curiously looking at him, and beckoned us to the center of the room.

  “Hello, ladies,” he said when we were all gathered around him. “My name is John Stone, and I’ll be hosting this show.”

  John was good-looking, but not overly handsome. His voice was slightly high-pitched and he wore a wedding ring. I suspected that these were typical traits of the host of a reality show. The producers wouldn’t want him to outshine the leading man, after all.

  “I’ll be the person you come to with any complaints or concerns, and you can trust me. It’s my job to act as a sort of go-between. Also, I’ll be guiding you through the process of things like the parties we’ll have, when you’ll get to meet with Craig, and I’ll be announcing the assigned dates and so on.”

  The women chattered suddenly, like a flock of birds going apeshit in a tree because a hyena had come around.

  My brain started working: assigned dates? Craig? Right. Craig must have been the single man we were all pursuing. Jesus, what a boring name. They should have changed it for the show to Basil Horsetongue or Damien Wellhung. I’d almost forgotten that there was a man involved, and dates. How utterly bizarre to watch women get so excited without knowing what we were fighting for.

  I heard the continuing murmur of women speaking under their breaths, as though hearing the name of the man we were going to compete for like wolves over a deer’s carcass ignited their imaginations. Suddenly he had a name, which meant that he had a conjured face. I wasn’t sure what face “Craig” was really supposed to evoke in the imagination. To me it sounded too much like “crag.” I began to picture a grey-faced man with little to no sense of humour.

  But of course all that mattered was that he was the prize, and that would be enough to keep the ladies interested and drooling.

  Somehow, I wasn’t excited in the way that knew I should be. My initial nervousness had been replaced by mere curiosity, and I convinced myself that I was merely an objective observer. Nothing about this surreal experience made sense so I had to take ownership of it. Perhaps any igniting of flames had already been done in the form of Tristan, who occupied my thoughts more than he should.

  John walked us through some of the rules and regulations, most of which we’d all heard before.

  Things didn’t really become interesting until he finally beckoned someone to wheel rows of dresses in for the first meeting with Craig, which was to be filmed a few hours later. If I thought the candidates were animals before, now they’d gone seriously rabid. When the dress racks rolled in shrieks filled the air, as if the room had suddenly filled with clothes-worshipping banshees. I thought the ladies would tear each other limb from limb over the garments though I couldn’t see why; they all pretty well looked the same to me: low cut, too sparkly, too shiny. Too small.

  “Hanging back?” asked Julia, who’d sidled up next to me as I watched the mayhem unfold. She wasn’t going in for the kill either.

  “I figure I’ve seen all the women by now, and you and I know perfectly well that there’s probably only one dress on those racks that fits me.”

  “True,” she said. There was nothing insulting in her tone; Julia was simply a no-bullshit kind of girl and I liked it. “And I’m not rushing in because I couldn’t care less if they threw me into a burlap sack. I’m all about personality, baby, not showing my tits,” she added.

  As I watched the other girls at work, I realized that my new friend had a point; the cattiest, most violent competition seemed to be over the dresses with the least fabric.

  “Jesus,” I said. “I should go in and fight them. Imagine what those things would look like on me. They’d barely cover a nipple.”

  “Oh my God, you should totally do that.” Julia looked me up and do
wn now. “I think you’d look pretty sexy, actually.”

  I pictured myself strapped in like a woman who’d been tied up in spandex like a happy and willing victim of bondage. I could see Julia’s point; it was sort of hot. But I didn’t think my first television appearance should really be as some sort of overweight exhibitionist. Surely I could leave that until the third episode at least.

  When the crowd had dispersed finally and the women had satisfied themselves, running growling to their corners with their spoils, I approached the racks. There were only a few dresses left, and I knew immediately which was intended for me. I don’t think it had even been touched. It was red, made of a stretchy sort of material and the top half was a sort of faux-wrap. The bottom half was looser and flowing, and actually I quite liked it.

  Julia chose one of two remaining dresses: a black number with an empire waist. It was very tasteful and elegant and would probably make her look like the classiest woman in the room, though the ladies showing the bulk of their breast flesh to the world would probably disagree with me on that.

  John, who had been standing by the door no doubt laughing to himself or terrified or both, walked again to the middle of the room now and got our attention. This time wasn’t so easy; he had to pry women’s eyes away from their fancy new frocks.

  “Ladies,” he said, and in a louder voice which almost amounted to an angry yell, “Ladies!” Finally girls stopped talking to their viscose atrocities and looked over at him.

  “You’ll be brought into various dressing rooms for hair and makeup. After that you’ll be taken in groups of eight to meet Craig. Enjoy the rest of the day, and I’ll see you at the house.”

  A couple of casually but stylishly dressed men came in and began calling out names, summoning us to have our faces spackled with television makeup. I got called in the second group and followed one young man in tight jeans that were so tight that they almost looked like leggings, accompanied by a couple of girls I hadn’t yet met.