This is where it starts.
Six contestants stamping their feet on a remarkably rickety wooden jetty, looking out into the freezing waters of Ilulissat harbour, in the Arctic Circle. The bright buildings and sloping roofs of the town are behind us, and the wide basin of water is held on either side by rocky cliffs. Maybe a mile ahead of us the fjord opens up into the open, frigid waters of Disko Bay. Hunks of ice clog the harbour waters, from football-sized all the way up to masses the size of caravans, floating companionably among the fishing boats.
Every one of us is shuddering with excitement and cold. And it is such cold: rigid and brittle, right across every inch of exposed skin. Divested of the luggage that’s being taken to the ship separately, standing here in only the clothes we’re wearing, the atmosphere has changed. Anticipation sparkles alongside the fine flakes of snow.
There’s no going back, and we all know it.
I’m joined by Helen, who follows my eyeline. ‘Big moment for you.’
‘How do you mean?’
She nods at the group. ‘First show for Tori Tells Stories, isn’t it? You got the big network commission, all your people lined up: the ship, the crew.’ She gives me a look that falls somewhere between respect and surprise. ‘You’ve made it. Not just a pretty face. A businesswoman, too.’
I’m not sure how I feel about talking about this side of it, but the camera’s off, so I shrug. ‘I guess I have.’
I’ve worked my whole life for this. Every cup of tea I made, way back when I was a set runner; every time I had to kiss an exec’s arse to secure my foot on the next rung of the ladder. Every low-rent presenting job I took, until I finally got the big-time stuff. Every moment has led me right here. Where I call the shots.
‘Good for you,’ she says, taking out a vape. ‘No one can take this away from you now.’
Making sure Helen looks away before I let my default-smile drop, I think of the words scrawled in the letter I was sent. What they could do to me, if they got out.
‘No, you’re right. No one can,’ I tell her.
And they can’t. I won’t let them.
Behind us, another off-road SUV pulls up, right on time: Craig Nduka, our Arctic guide and medic. Dee, camera ready, jogs over and catches the moment the door swings open. Craig jumps out – wraparound sunglasses, a quarter-inch of Afro hair, lots of pockets.
I go over, hand outstretched, but he finishes hauling several army-style holdalls from the back of the truck, leaving me hanging. Enough seconds pass for me to suspect a power play, but eventually Craig straightens up and returns the greeting.
‘Pleasure,’ he says, pressing my hand tightly.
We make small talk about his journey – he’s been staying up here with some locals for a month, practising his hunting skills.
‘Took a few days out in the open boats,’ he says, miming a paddle.
‘Must be amazing,’ I say, ‘having those same skills their ancestors had. I can’t imagine what that’s like.’
‘Aye, well. And how was the private jet?’ he asks. His voice is warm, spread thickly with east-coast Scotland, but there’s an edge to the question.
I laugh uncertainly. ‘It was – quick, I guess!’
Too late, I remember the recurring theme in his CV: sustainable travel, the impact of tourism. Eco responsibility.
‘And that’s the main thing, right?’ He regards me blankly for a moment too long before jerking his head towards the vehicle. ‘Let’s get this kit, eh?’
I follow him as he picks up a bag to carry it over to where the others are gathered. I try to pick one up too, but it’s twice as heavy as I was expecting.
‘Ah, leave it, lass—’ he begins, but then he stops, impressed, as I get into a squat and heave it up. ‘Fair play,’ he says, standing back.
It burns every muscle in my legs to do it, and I know I’ll pay for it later, but there’s no way I’m showing him weakness in the first two minutes of meeting him.
Suddenly there’s a roar from the open water. From the main part of the harbour, two small boats are heading towards us. Each has a single crewman and is unladen, the prow nosing high above the water, with a growling outboard at the back end. They’re rigid inflatable boats, or RIBs: I remember them from a crime series I presented a while ago with the Met Police.
They slow, the engines dropping to a murmur, then bump against the timber of this jetty, which somehow would look more at home at the edge of Windermere than the Arctic Ocean. One of the crew – a woman, I see now, as blonde as she is sturdy – hops out of her boat, holding a line, and pivots to catch another one that’s thrown to her from the second vessel. In a practised movement, she expertly ties both ropes to a mooring post.
‘I am Ulla,’ she says and then, gesturing to the other skipper, ‘this is Stefan.’ The whole crew are Finnish, as is the ship – Will got a deal on using them for a few weeks before they go on to their next job – but her English is very good. ‘Your ship is just around the fjord.’ She points to where a rocky promontory reaches out. ‘We take you now.’
The contestants have moved excitedly towards the water, and Annabel comes to the front of the group. ‘The ship was meant to meet us here,’ she says, looking over anxiously at Dee, who’s been crouching for a low shot of the approaching RIBs. ‘We wanted to get a shot of it, right, from the land?’
Dee, coming over, makes a dismissive face. ‘We’ll work around it.’
‘But we said,’ Annabel complains.
‘We can adapt,’ Dee assures her. ‘I’ll cover them getting into these boats here and then when we get to the ship I’ll jump out first and shoot them climbing out. No big deal.’
‘We shouldn’t have to adapt!’ Annabel says, plenty loud enough for several heads to turn. I take her firmly by the arm, give Ulla the ‘one minute’ gesture with a finger and move quickly out of earshot. Behind me, Dee takes the reins without missing a beat and starts directing the contestants into the waiting boats.
‘What was that?’ I hiss at Annabel.
Her nostrils flare. ‘I’m sorry. I want it to be perfect. It’s my first job, you know? I don’t want things going wrong when I’ve made the plans right. And I told them we needed that shot of the ship in the harbour.’
‘Listen to me. These people need to see us being in control. They need to see professionalism.’ I keep my voice low, but my fingers are still gripping her arm, far too tightly. I make myself let go. ‘If they don’t think we know what we’re doing, the whole thing falls apart.’
She nods, mute.
‘If something goes wrong, they don’t need to know. Rule number one. Did they not teach you that in your internship?’
Annabel shakes her head, and I stifle a growl of frustration. A whole degree in TV and film production, six months on a set in the US, and not a fucking clue. This, here, is a fraction of the bollockings I had in my first job, and she already looks like she might cry.
I remind myself of the thousands we’ve saved by hiring her over someone with experience, and take a slow breath in through my nose.
‘Look, don’t get upset. Remember what Dee said – we adapt; it doesn’t always go to plan. And we present a united front, okay? Always.’
She nods quickly. ‘Yes. Okay. I’m sorry.’
‘You’re doing fine,’ I half lie.
She nods, swiping quickly at her eyes. ‘Thanks, Tori. I really appreciate it.’
I release her, then turn back to the group and clap my hands. ‘Right, everyone,’ I call out as I head brightly over. ‘Let’s get going!’