And just like that, after the months of planning, the agonising over the contestants, the screen tests, the recces, the endless budgeting woes: we’re off. The first shoot of my own production company, Tori Tells Stories, is actually under way. I close the door behind me and head down to where Will’s 4x4 is humming into life.
Dee’s already in the back. ‘You know those shoes aren’t going to work, right?’ she says, eyeing my wedges. ‘On the ice sheets, I mean.’
I waggle an exposed toe as I get in. ‘No reason I can’t take a little bit of fabulous with me, is there?’
The look she gives me, the shake of her head: it’s like she’s forgotten that all of this I do – the shiny exterior – is part of the job. Does she not remember those endless nights in our twenties, going over and over YouTube tutorials on walking in heels, contouring, the sweet spot of a good smile? Stuff I’d scoffed at in university before realising, nearly too late, that all the degrees in the world wouldn’t get me onscreen work if I didn’t look the part. Dee was the one who’d reminded me, right before that big-break audition two years ago, shortly before I met Will, that I wasn’t to use any words longer than three syllables.
She knows it’s a front. But somehow, these days, it’s like it’s all she sees.
I film myself clipping on my seatbelt and giving a peace sign, then type the caption: #FrozenOut: eight leaders, seven Arctic challenges, one ship, one £100k winner! Bring it on! I follow it with the familiar hashtags, my thumbs flying across the keys almost on muscle-memory alone. #Arctic #£100k #eightleaders.
‘House all locked up? Cameras set?’ Will asks as I post the video to the socials.
I sigh, annoyed, then open the car door.
‘I’ll go,’ Dee says.
She gets out and Will gives me a look.
‘What?’
‘Five grand on a brand-new security system and you forget to check it? So you’re only concerned about the house when you’re actually in it?’ Then he frowns. ‘You would tell me if there was something going on, right? Like a fan, or whatever?’
I exaggerate an affectionate eye-roll. ‘We’ve been over this.’
It’s half true. What we’ve been over is his assumption that my new-found fame has prompted my concern about safety from strangers.
The truth of it is: strangers, I can deal with.
Will flexes his fingers on the wheel.
‘You’re not nervous, are you?’ I ask him. I poke him gently in the side. ‘Not going to miss me so much that you cry?’
‘I’ll be fine.’ There’s a lot to do here when we’re gone – negotiations about foreign distribution, advertising meetings. Will’s got a lot riding on Frozen Out too, though for him it’s more pride than anything. We’d hoped his family would back it, but when our cashflow issues really showed themselves, his father (not Dad, never Dad) got cold feet. So the money propping up this show is nearly all mine. Not that I’d worry Dee by admitting it.
I lean over and kiss his cheek. ‘Your father will be proud, sweetheart. We’re going to show him what you can really do.’
From the way his jaw tightens, I can tell that wasn’t the right thing to say. And that tiny, niggling question comes to me again. Do I really know this man well enough to marry him?
Dee reappears from the house, and Will turns to kiss me back as she comes down the path.
‘Don’t worry about me, Tor,’ he says. ‘Concentrate on you. Focus on doing your best.’
I wince slightly at his tone: we didn’t put up that extra shelf in the office last weekend for his awards, did we? But I remind myself we’re an hour from a big goodbye, and I holster it.
‘I’m not worried about anything at all.’
‘What you should worry about,’ says Dee, getting in behind me and slamming the door, ‘is that Annabel’s already called me five times this morning to make sure we’re on schedule.’ She belts up, then gives me a look. ‘Tell me again why we chose her?’
I laugh and don’t look at Will, who insisted that what convinced him to hire the researcher was her efficiency, and definitely not her ludicrously low rates.
‘She brings balance,’ I say lightly. ‘Enthusiasm to counter your relentless apathy?’
‘Whatever. A job’s a job. Let’s go.’
It’s a bright day and the traffic is unusually fluid. Will weaves expertly out from my leafy street in Chiswick towards the M4. He finds a lively station on the radio, and I sneak my hand onto his thigh. His muscles tense deliciously under my touch and he takes his eyes from the road to give me that stomach-flipping grin of his. That’s what it takes to zip that other, snarky little voice about our relationship, because my God, this boy.
I hear Dee shift around in the back of the car and swivel in my seat. She’s got her phone out, staring at the screen but not scrolling, not texting. Biting her lip. Meaning it’s that guy again. Leo, the one she had the fling with.
‘You might as well,’ I tell her, making her jump.
She stuffs it quickly away into the pocket of her backpack. ‘Might as well what?’
‘Text him? I mean, once we’re out there, there’s no internet, so if you’re going to do it, do it now.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Will says. ‘When I was out there XC-ing last year, I hardly got a single message in or out for the full two weeks.’
‘XC?’ Dee asks flatly.
‘Sorry, sorry. XC – cross-country.’ He glances up at her in the rear-view. ‘Cross-country skiing?’
‘Why didn’t you say “cross-country skiing”?’
He laughs and looks away, unaffected. Would it be so hard to be nice to him? Given that Will’s her boss, actually. Dee meets my glare and gives a small shrug of apology, before looking studiously out of the window. It’s the same chill that comes over everything whenever Leo is mentioned. I never met him when they were together, and now I wonder if I ever will. Whoever he is, he cast one hell of a spell.
Quietly I try again. ‘Seriously, Dee. Just message him. You could break the ice a bit now, and then by the time we get back maybe he’ll be up for a fresh—’
‘Can you leave it?’
‘Okay, okay,’ I say, holding up a hand. ‘Sorry. You know what you’re doing.’
Except that she doesn’t, not really. How long has it been? Almost half a year. Something happened right before she suddenly decided to rent out her flat and move in with me. God knows why it went so cold. I’ve never known Dee so unhappy. Nothing would shift it, not for months. I’d hoped this job – the chance of a huge change of scene – would make the difference. Take her back to who she’d been, before. It’s mad to think that not so long ago, on learning we both had an empty weekend, she demanded that I meet her at the airport with only my passport, my credit card and an open mind. But it’s like that adventurous woman I thought I could rely on for ever is … gone.
I shift back round and then get out my own phone, feeling suddenly edgy about the lack of comms where we’re headed. Despite the show being the kind of format that would usually broadcast daily and semi-live, the whole show has been structured as a pre-shoot, to be edited and broadcast months down the line. It’s a decision that was made precisely because we won’t be able to transfer the material in time for a daily show. Once we’re out there, it’s total isolation: just the ship, the cameras, the ice.
We hit the M4 and Will puts his foot down, swinging around the other traffic and out into the fast lane, his natural territory. I consider calling my dad, but it’s been too long to get away with merely a quick goodbye. So I text instead, promising a proper call when I return. I get a message back within seconds. Love you, sweetie. Your mum would be so proud of you.
Will glances over. ‘Your dad?’ I nod. ‘Want me to send him updates?’
‘God, no,’ I tell him. They’ve only met once, and the last thing I want is for them to start gossiping about me behind my back in my absence. There are things Will could find out from him that could ruin us. Us, this show, my career – everything. So I need to keep them as far apart from each other as I can; at least for now.
I lean my forehead against the cool of the window and watch the airport come into view.
Long-term, I’m going to have to come up with a different solution. I’d hoped I could keep it hidden for ever, but that all changed the moment I got the letter.