I wake when the tyres hit the tarmac at Reykjavík. As soon as the seatbelts light goes out, Annabel buzzes around, collecting up the release forms, giving us permission to broadcast what we film. Bags on our shoulders, the five of us from the front section – Tori, Annabel, Wolf, John and me – spill out onto the concourse one after the other. Annabel hangs back for the others.
I shield my eyes against the sun as the wheels of my case rattle on the ground. The air is cold but utterly pure. Conscious of Gaia trailing behind us, I hang back to introduce myself, but she’s already making a call, turning her back to me as if I wasn’t even there. I catch the others up.
‘My favourite capital city in the world,’ John says enthusiastically. He’s got a guidebook in his hand, the pages thickened with age.
‘Been here a few times then?’ I half shout over the noise of a passing fuel truck.
‘Oh, certainly. Once you get a taste for snow and mountains and all that, you tend to head north a lot. Proposed to my wife about half an hour from here.’
We start walking towards the terminal. ‘What did she say?’
He bites back a grin, and I realise my error. ‘Oh, right. Obviously yes, if she’s your wife.’
Nudging me, he leans in conspiratorially. ‘I say daft things all the time. At least you won’t need to worry about saying them on film, though, given that you’re behind the camera. Got to tell you. I’ve been a little nervous about that.’
Ahead of us, the automatic doors slide open at Tori’s approach. John hangs back to speak to Gaia, who’s finishing her call. He waves at her to follow, then hitches up his bag and carries on.
I frown, confused. ‘You’ve already met?’
‘Just being friendly.’ He adjusts his glasses. ‘So, you’re friends with the big star, hey?’ he says, nodding towards Tori up ahead. ‘Will mentioned it,’ John explains, seeing my confusion. ‘So what’s she like? What are we in for?’
I’m about to answer, but up ahead Tori beckons me impatiently.
‘You’ll have to wait and see,’ I tell him with a wink.
We find a corner inside and I put down my bags.
Tori stretches. ‘We’ve got an hour to kill before the connection. Shall we get the intros?’
I tell her to give me a sec to set up, and start to unpack the gear. A smartly dressed young woman with impossibly perfect make-up, trailing a small wheeled suitcase, comes straight over to Tori, heels clacking. First thought: am I the only one not bringing heels to the Arctic? I hit Record and give Tori the thumbs up in time for her to enter the shot.
Tori glances at the young woman’s outstretched hand, shakes it, then yanks her in for a hug. ‘Everyone,’ she says, turning her to the group, ‘this is Nishma Ghosh—’
‘Nish,’ the woman corrects, immaculate teeth glinting as she smiles.
‘Nish.’ Tori clamps her arm around Nish’s shoulders like they’re old mates. They’re not. They’ve literally only met on Zoom. ‘Nish is the UK’s youngest head teacher. She’s an accomplished freediver and occasional concert cellist. Is that right?’
‘Yeah, I mean, I dabble.’
‘But you dabbled enough to play in the London Philharmonic, at one point?’
Nish looks uncomfortable. ‘A long time ago. In the youth section. I was fifteen.’
Tori shoots a look at Annabel, who blinks rapidly and consults her clipboard.
‘And you entered because …’ Tori asks.
‘I’m always telling my students: aim high. Believe that you don’t have limits.’ She looks around, making eye contact with everyone. ‘Leadership, to me, isn’t only about strength; it’s about integrity, about respecting the people you lead and only asking them to do things you’d do yourself. So here I am. Pushing myself.’
‘Fantastic,’ Tori says, beaming. Then she gestures to the older woman seated at the end of the bank of chairs. ‘And this is Helen Greenaway.’
I reframe for a two-shot as she stands, takes her glasses off her prominent forehead and snips shut their arms, letting them hang from their chain against her chest. There’s no hug this time: I can feel Helen’s no-nonsense vibe from where I’m standing, like I’ve walked into an industrial fridge. But she shakes everyone’s hand, making sure to look each of them in the eye and to hear their names. You know she’s memorised each one by the time she releases their hand.
Tori cocks her head. ‘And you’ve got a strong leadership background, Helen.’
‘I do. I started my first business at eleven, when I went off to boarding school, though it didn’t last too long. Turned out to be a little too akin to a protection racket for my housemistress’s liking.’ She purses her lips and waits for the smattering of laughter. I find myself liking her already. ‘But then I abandoned violence, and it was plain sailing from there really. I just floated my twenty-sixth company on the London Stock Exchange.’
‘Not in this for the money then,’ Nish says.
I come away from the viewfinder and meet Tori’s eye for half a second. This tension, from these two women working at opposite ends of the financial spectrum, is exactly what Tori wanted.
‘No, I’m not,’ Helen says simply. ‘I wanted a challenge, and to remind all the young men in the boardroom that there’s a reason I’ve got the seat with the arms on it.’
‘I don’t remember a Helen in the email,’ Gaia says to Tori. ‘And weren’t there supposed to be eight of us?’
‘Helen joined us a little later than the rest,’ Tori replies. If she notices Gaia’s accusatory tone, she doesn’t show it. ‘And yes, we did make some last-minute changes to the line-up, so to speak. Thought it would be a neater format with half a dozen contestants – gives us a little longer to focus on your unique stories.’
I hold back a laugh. You can say what you want about Tori, but she’s a damn good liar.
Almost as good as me.
Tori gestures towards Gaia like she’s presenting a painting for auction. ‘Everyone, this is Gaia and – I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t know an awful lot about you,’ she says apologetically. ‘I understand from my brief notes that you’re very involved with homeless outreach?’
‘Oh, which organisation?’ Helen asks, and when Gaia tells her – a small charity dedicated to supporting animal owners with addictions – she nods approvingly.
‘Chances are you’ll have stayed in one of Helen’s hotels at some point,’ Tori tells everyone, changing the subject.
‘Fairly sure I’ve worked in one,’ says another man, coming over. I have to zoom out a bit, so as not to cut off the top of his head – he’s huge, easily six foot four, with a buzz cut and sleeves rolled up, to show off heavily inked forearms the size of Christmas hams.
‘And we all know this guy, don’t we?’ Wolf says, slapping him on the back.
Tori gestures towards him. ‘Everyone – Marco Tucci. Former captain of England’s rugby union team.’
‘Men’s rugby union,’ Gaia says pointedly.
‘Ha, yes!’ Tori agrees. ‘And probably our best-known contestant.’
The muscles in Wolf’s jaw bulge. ‘Big star. Huge!’
Marco tries not to look flattered. ‘Rugby man, yeah?’
Wolf wrinkles his nose. ‘Keep up with the scores, you know. And those were some serious scores!’ The faintest glint of mischief in his eyes. ‘Must have been a hell of a fall from all the way up there.’
Helen sucks air through her teeth. You don’t have to be a rugby fan to have heard about Marco Tucci, with the record for shortest-serving captain of the national team. Also one of very few to hold the title without a private education: famously he left school with no qualifications at all. He’s been out of rehab for a year, but his catastrophic descent from grace remains a thing of legend. The media couldn’t get enough: drugs, prostitutes – even allegations of fraud at the youth foundation he’d set up. More recently, when a tabloid got wind of his new job in hotel security, its comparison of what he earned and owned in his England days versus now was detailed with gleeful Schadenfreude.
I suspect Marco’s a bit of a joke hire – his name is too mired in controversy for anyone to see him as a true leader – but Will never said that out loud.
It takes a moment for Marco’s face to fall, but Tori doesn’t give him time to retaliate.
‘And tell us about your leadership style, Marco,’ she says, ever the pacifier.
You can almost watch the instincts battle it out on Marco’s face: establish dominance over the rival alpha, or prioritise first impressions and let it slide. He blinks and goes with the latter.
‘Things have changed, for me. Since the rugby.’ He nods, frowning, as if acknowledging it for the first time. ‘But I’ve got my little girls now. No big blokes to order about, so … You’ve got to be gentle, haven’t you? It’s a different thing.’
There’s a surprising vulnerability about the way he’s talking half to himself, and Tori does exactly what I’d do and says nothing at all. It’s Interview Skills 101, the very first thing you learn: nothing makes people talk like silence.
‘I want to show my girls that I’m not that angry bloke shouting through a mouthguard any more. I’d like everyone to see that.’
There’s an awkward moment, then Tori claps her hands. ‘Right then,’ she trills. ‘The connecting flight will be here in half an hour. Have a little rest, get to know each other.’
‘And I need your release forms before we go any further,’ Annabel says nervously. She scuttles straight over to Marco. ‘I think I’m missing yours?’
‘Didn’t get one,’ he says.
She quickly digs out a spare, and he sighs and folds it in half. ‘No,’ she laughs awkwardly, ‘sorry. I need it now actually.’
‘I’ll do it later.’
Annabel glances around. As I pick up some other shots I can hear her cajoling him. ‘Marco, it’s only a quick form. It’ll take two—’
‘I fucking said I’ll do it later,’ he hisses. I look up as John appears, wiping his glasses. ‘Air travel plays havoc with my eyes too, you know.’ He nods to the form in Marco’s fist. ‘Tiny print on those things. Want a hand filling it in?’
Marco grunts his agreement, and John produces a pen.
Annabel spots me watching and comes over.
‘Not all that … friendly, are they?’ She’s hurt, I can tell – there’s a tightness to her voice.
‘They’re here to win,’ I tell her. ‘Not to be your mates.’
‘Surely it’s possible to do both. Do the job, but make friends too?’ She gives me a quavering smile that suggests she’s not just talking about the contestants.
I snap the lens cap on. There was a time when she would have been right – working the hours I did on daily or weekly shows, years back, meant that colleagues were bedrock, closer than family. Just look at me and Tori. But it’s not like that now. If Annabel knew me better, she’d know to stay well out of my orbit.
‘Maybe for some people,’ I tell her as I pack up the camera. ‘I’m only here for the work.’
It’s a long wait, but eventually we’re on the second flight – a shared charter flight over to Ilulissat on the west coast of Greenland. A few hours after we leave the runway, we’re descending again. I’m sitting next to Nish, whose steely professionalism quickly gives way to a childlike glee.
‘Oh my goodness,’ she yelps, leaning over me to peer through the oval window. ‘Mountains, look. Snow!’
It’s the Arctic. I’m not entirely sure what she was expecting.
But even I have to admit, it is pretty incredible. We’ve hugged the Greenland coastline all the way up. Inland to the east, everywhere that isn’t black rock is white, as far as the eye can see. Westwards out to sea, icebergs the size of office blocks hang in the water. Tori narrates everything she sees: the dark dots of indistinct vehicles making their way along a white road; the formation of a flight of some kind of Arctic bird beneath us. Every so often there’s a village, then the very edges of the town up ahead come into view as we start to bank. Soviet-looking buildings dominate, severe and greyscale, but there are brightly painted houses scattered at their feet like fallen Lego. The airport is little more than a child’s model.
It’s blinding, breathtaking. It is, as Tori has continuously told me since the day she finally talked me into accepting the contract, the trip of a lifetime.
So why do I feel like I’m making such a massive mistake?