Araminta taps nervously on the screen, waiting for her friend’s face to fill it as the chirps of the dial ring out.
“Ahhh, scream!” a high voice trills—not actually screaming but saying the word—before her picture comes into view: slick, glossy hair, glistening cheekbones, and freshly manicured nails. She’s as polished as Eloise and clearly prepared for her moment on screen despite her next words: “Babe, I can’t believe you chose to call me. God, I love ya.”
“I love you too, Binks,” Araminta says with a smile, genuinely overcome by seeing a friendly face, and she feels on the cusp of tears. She holds them back instinctively before realizing they wouldn’t go amiss and letting them shimmer to the surface.
“Everyone is watching, Minty. They’re so jealous of you on that gorgeous island.”
“Do they all hate me?”
“Of course not.”
“I don’t need you to lie, Binki—I need to know what’s going on.”
“I’m not lying. Everyone loves you!”
“Not our friends. The people online, the papers. I can’t shake the feeling everyone thinks I’m horrible, especially after those posts.” What a convenient excuse they are—letting her ask about her reception without coming across like everything she’s doing is a performance. It’s all simply the social media posts messing with her head.
“No, babe, not at all. I mean, the papers that have dragged you for years are practically calling you a national treasure. And, oh god, everyone is obsessed with you and Rhys.”
“Rhys? Really?” They like Rhys and the way their relationship is going? So perhaps she should move on from the secrets, or lack thereof. But her chest tightens at the thought and it’s not simple strategy—she’s falling for this boy, and she’s more profoundly hurt than she’s been in years.
“Girl, please! That midnight picnic! Complete swoon. And he’s so hot. And he’s besotted with you.”
“But Isko said the confessional footage—”
“He’s lying, kind of,” she says. “Rhys said he only wanted to hook up but you persuaded him to want more. He said he needed to marry you one day and he wanted you to fall for him and all this adorable stuff. Please, he knows how lucky he is to be with you and that’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. Minty, you need to at least explore it! Besides, you can always—”
The call cuts out, replaced with text shining on the screen: your time is up.
Theo sits at the kitchen table, hunched over his coffee. He looks up at the sound of footsteps to see a mirror image in Rhys, lines creasing his eyes, his shuffling movements speaking of a lack of sleep. Maybe it’s the tiredness that saps the usual bite and tension, but last night’s anger is gone, and Theo feels no desire to tell him to fuck off.
“You look awful, Newman.”
“Fuck off,” Theo counters—but his heart’s not in it.
“Well, I know why I feel the way you look—I might have ruined the best thing to happen to me before it could even happen to me. But why do you?”
Theo takes such a long sip of coffee he might be downing it. “I quit the band last night.”
“Oh, shit.” Rhys falls into a chair. “How are you feeling?”
“Don’t pretend you care.”
Rhys considers. “Look Newman, I’m not interested in much, but your cannibalistic relationship with music is fascinating. You’d let it destroy you for a taste of the glory you’ve always dreamt of—so yeah, I want to know how it feels to throw it away.”
Theo’s certain Rhys is only doing this to provoke an argument, but he doesn’t have the energy. And once again, Rhys is correct.
Theo: It’s not fair. It’s really not fair that this is the guy who understands me best on the island.
“I just committed to going solo, like I’ve always wanted to. Forgetting all the arseholes in the band I just cut ties with, I…I’m hoping that without all that in my head I might get back to the music. Because…” he glances up at Rhys and remembers who he’s speaking to and no, he can’t do this.
“Come on, Newman. You already hate me; it’s not like you care enough about my reaction to risk it. You’ve got nothing to lose.”
Fine.
Theo finishes his coffee and stands to brew some more so he doesn’t have to see the man he’s speaking to.
“I’ve been struggling to compose lately,” he confesses.
“Writer’s block? How utterly mundane of you.”
“It happens to the best of us.” Theo shrugs. “It feels like more than that though. I can write. I’ve written loads, actually. But it’s all so basic.”
“Is that a problem? Basic music sells.”
Theo looks at him and finds him staring right back in a way that’s almost disconcerting. He’s seen a lot of Rhys on this island. He’s never seen him focused like this. When you talk to Rhys, it’s on the off-chance he’s listening.
He’s listening now.
“I know. And music doesn’t have to be deep to be important. But I suppose I’m hoping letting go of the band politics and the chaos of fame might help. I imagine a lot of people hate me right now. Maybe it will be worth it if I let it make me the musician I want to be.”
“Well, I know you’re not looking for advice,” Rhys says. “But I’m going to give it anyway, because my advice is excellent. You’ve spent most of your time here debating some of the most pretentious subjects I’ve ever heard. And I went to Julliard. No one wants to listen to a song about Plato. Why don’t you focus on living a little? Let those tensions rise. Meet a beautiful girl and actually fall in love before you write another love song—”
“I’m bisexual.”
“That’s not the point and you know it! Beautiful person then—someone to fall in love with. Do something. Feel something. Anything.”
Theo stares at him. Perhaps he should do more on this island—join in with the torrid affairs, start some drama. Maybe it wouldn’t just be for AHX or his publicist; maybe it could be for himself and his music too.
Theo: I just blew my life up on national TV and it’s Sutton of all people—the man who dealt the first blow by stealing that card—helping me pick up the pieces.
Coffee brewed, Rhys slides the sugar pot toward him before he can ask for it. “No amount of outside approval is going to make you happy about your own work, Theo.”
Theo: He’s right. He’s actually right. Honestly, that makes it worse.
“And if all else fails, explore the abyss of your tortured soul.”
Theo is certain Rhys means it as a mocking sort of joke, but he finds himself nodding anyway. “Is this really what you care about? Anyone else would be pressing me for details about the band and what happened.”
“I’m not stuck on this island with the band, Theo. And frankly your own fear is a bigger motivator and a bigger threat to me than squabbles with your coworkers. I don’t think you’ll win this competition to go solo, but you might do it to prove to yourself it’s worth it.”
“Is that all that motivates you? Was Isko right? Do you just want to get with Araminta for the competition?”
Rhys gapes a little at the sudden pivot. The others know about the two of them now, which makes this the first time he has spoken about her to another person. “I think she’s special,” he finally says. “And I think there might be something special between us too.”
“Then it’s time for a grand gesture,” Theo says. Rhys glares at him and he shrugs. “I might not have fallen in love well enough for a love song that would appease you, but I’ve studied plenty. If she’s worth it, fight for it.”
Araminta returns from her phone call and gathers her things from her room: a shawl and a towel, her sunscreen and bottle of water. Enough that she can spend the morning somewhere decompressing.
She’s not given a chance.
The moment she’s on that patio her eyes track to the wall that’s haunted them these last seven days.
There are secrets all over it—large, swooping letters in the blue ink they’d used on the cards, this time scrawled across the white walls themselves. Secrets, fears, the things holding them back.
I should have made it by now
The time I dated a journalist for the sake of a good review
The amount of debt I’m in
Someone using me being on this show for their five minutes of fame
Losing Araminta
Rhys steps around the corner and her breath catches. She forgets sometimes, surrounded by so many beautiful people, that Rhys has the smile and muscle definition to belong on a magazine cover. He is not the bland type of gorgeous these shows are filled with—he is distinguished, like young photos of iconic Hollywood actors. So interesting to simply look at that in a moment like this, he genuinely makes her heart skip a beat.
“Thank god it’s you,” he says. “I’ve already startled Kalpana and half-proposed to Jerome.”
Her laugh sounds nervous even to her own ears.
“What’s this?” she asks.
“My secrets. I didn’t write any because I thought they’d go up in flames. By the time they’d been turned into stakes and I knew I didn’t have anything on the line, it was too late to level the playing field. I was going to tell you all these, and I should have when I had the chance, but I chickened out, scared that they’d be too much. That somehow, they’d just make clear how unworthy of you I am. But I’m hoping this might fix things. And I’m very much hoping it hasn’t ruined whatever was growing here.”
She hadn’t actually known what she was going to do. She’d wanted this morning to consider, but now it’s so obvious. She’s not on a reality show; she’s in a movie, and she knows her lines.
They’re the ones she’s always dreamed of saying.
“It hasn’t ruined it,” she confirms.
“Good, because I still owe you dinner.”
Everyone sits around the pool together, like a concerted effort has been made to heal after last night’s tensions. At least by tearing all the secrets from the wall, Kalpana cleansed them enough to not be at each other’s throats.
But they don’t speak much.
Theo is focused on last night and this morning, letting himself feel all that can be felt right now.
Kalpana is still reeling from her self-sabotage, strategizing a potential win, and wondering if she needs it. She imagines the audience at home cheering her on, loving her frenzied destruction, racing to find out more about her and her work.
Jerome still plots revenge, though it’s less a plot than idle fantasy with a formless shape, a mass with the vague appearance of Kalpana suffering. When he really thinks about it, what he wants is her listed on his app as he watches the one-star reviews come flooding in: loud, bitch, ugly, catty, feminazi.
Isko is no longer indignant over Araminta and Rhys, just trying to keep his head down, thankful that no one seems truly furious with him over his espionage challenge.
Araminta is all over Rhys. Not because she’s pleased at their reconciliation, though she is, but because she catches the way Isko avoids looking at them—and with each ducked head, she grows angrier. He lied about what Rhys said in the behind-the-scenes footage; Binki said as much. So he was just trying to drive them apart? Just jealous? Fine. If he wants something to be envious of, she’ll give it to him.
Her tongue is down Rhys’s throat, her hands on his chest; she is the Nymph of Knightsbridge on full display. She would screw him right then and there if she thought it would cut Isko deep enough.
When they finally leave to freshen up before the evening, the others look up from where they had been carefully avoiding eye contact and burst into laughter.
“Oh, this is going to be a disaster,” Isko says.
“They do know that if this doesn’t work out, they’re stuck on an island together, right?” Kalpana asks.
Theo shakes his head with a wry smile on his lips. “I assume it’s crossed their minds, but who knows; they hardly asked for our opinion, did they? But he seemed pretty upset when he thought it was over.”
“He’s an actor,” Isko says. “Who could believe a word he says, let alone trust him enough to date him. Araminta’s an idiot.”
“He’s an idiot,” Jerome corrects. “She’s a man-eater. He hasn’t thought this through at all. But the real question is when do you think they will bang? My money is on tomorrow.”
“Tonight,” Theo says.
Kalpana lowers her deck chair further, reclining a little more. “Nah, Araminta will wait a few days. Jumping into bed with him wouldn’t look right for the cameras. She won’t want the world thinking she’s easy.”
“Internalized misogyny aside,” Jerome says, continuing a conversation from a few days earlier that was cut for time—and interest—about how he really is a feminist, actually and nearly wrote his thesis on Judith Butler. “You’re right—it’s always the allure of what’s happening behind closed doors that she turns into a scandal. I don’t think she’s the type that would have sex on TV.”
Isko snorts. “She’s the type that would roll around in paint and have sex on a canvas if she thought it would win her the evening’s challenge.”
“I guess we will just have to see.” Kalpana raises her glass.
“Well, what do we get if we’re right?” Jerome asks.
“The satisfaction.”
They all raise their glasses to hers because she’s right—that is enough.
Araminta and Rhys arrive flushed when the alarm rings, the editing crew showing twelve seconds of their dinner date and fifty-four seconds of them kissing, which is an incredibly long time. The sort of time frame you don’t realize is long until you’re watching tongues on lips and fumbling fingers and two people trying to devour each other while clumsy music plays on top and the camera circles them in shaky spins.
The other contestants try to avoid looking at each other, knowing that if they do, they will start laughing. It seems stupid now, their anger at this relationship. It is too absurd to be annoyed by.
It’s early, the sun not yet set, and Eloise flickers onto the screen with a knowing smile. Sometimes they forget the viewers, and it feels like it might be Eloise alone behind the cameras—her giant face on the screen, big blue eyes that seem to follow them. “Good evening, contestants! Well, our first group challenge wasn’t due to finish until tomorrow, but Kalpana, you certainly saw to the end of that. So we thought we’d give you a last-ditch effort to win back some points. Tonight, you’re all going to take part, and we’re testing your morality! That’s right, we expect our icons to be morally outstanding citizens and—”
“No, we don’t.”
Everyone snaps to Araminta, shocked that she’d interrupt the spiel, the unwritten code that they suspend their disbelief and play along.
“I’m sorry, but we don’t,” Araminta says with a shrug. “In fact, I’d argue the opposite is true—we like our icons to break rules, to push boundaries, to go off the rails every now and again. Though, I’ll admit, in a sort of contained way without any real damage. Morality? Being an upstanding citizen is hardly iconic behavior.”
Like now, for instance. There’s no way the tabloid’s favorite slut is going to win any morality contests, and she has no interest in being awarded such a title from the very people who would condemn her anyway. Better to play up to her brand instead.
Rhys had shuffled ever so slightly away from her almost instinctively, like he wants to distance himself from the fall-out. But he must realize what he’s doing and how it looks, his face dropping into an easy, confident smile—the sort most are beginning to suspect he wears when most uneasy.
“Be that as it may, Araminta,” Eloise says with a patronizing smile, “it’s our at home audience’s opinion on what’s iconic that matters.”
Araminta: [Laughter] I think you all just enjoy the conflict! And I have to say, excellent work.
“So in the box left for tonight’s challenge you’ll find two paddles—one that says I’d do that and one that says I wouldn’t. I’m going to read a series of prompts and you’ll all raise a paddle.”
The cellar is littered with boxes—potential challenges just waiting for them. All of them are digitally locked, and in that moment, one of them pops open. Theo retrieves the paddles inside, and the edit cuts to them in hand.
“Would you ever cheat on a partner?”
All of them raise their paddle that no, they wouldn’t.
“I’ve learned from my past mistakes,” Theo says and Rhys nods too, like that could apply to him as well.
“Would you cheat in this competition?”
They are divided—Theo, Kalpana, and Araminta saying they wouldn’t, Isko, Jerome, and Rhys saying they would.
“No surprises there,” Kalpana mutters.
Isko: Liars.
“Would you hurt another contestant for the sake of winning?”
All of them say no.
Eloise smiles and continues on. Several rounds later, none particularly surprising, she laughs.
“Well, that was a fun warm-up, wasn’t it?”
The paddles fall limp.
“I thought you wanted to win points?” She tries for something mischievous, perhaps even flirtatious. Something that works like sandpaper against their skin. “Let’s remind ourselves of where we are, shall we?”
The scores appear in a column down the screen.
Araminta: 5
Isko: 5
Jerome: 5
Theo: 4
Rhys: 4
Kalpana: 0
“Isko,” Eloise says abruptly, “would you take a point if it meant stealing it from Jerome?”
Isko startles. “What?”
“I have to press you for an answer, Isko.” A timer appears, counting down from ten.
Isko hesitates only a moment longer before raising the I’d do that paddle.
“Excellent,” Eloise chirps, and the contestants watch in grotesque fascination as the scores change.
Jerome: 4
Isko: 6
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jerome seethes.
“You’ll have your chance,” Isko spits back.
“Kalpana, would you swap scores with Araminta?”
Kalpana already has her I wouldn’t do that paddle in hand and does not even hesitate to raise it. Perhaps if she’d lost points in another way, if it weren’t the spiteful display of superior morality, she’d be tempted, but she would lose all credibility.
“Theo, the internet is awash with scandals. Would you like us to announce what we’ve unearthed on Kalpana for two more points?”
Theo hesitates. And, oh god, he hates that he hesitates.
Two points would place him at the top.
Kalpana’s secrets might bury his.
If nothing else, the public might be too angry over him doing this to pay much attention to his past transgressions—and this is so much more forgivable.
Or would it be the blow that fells him?
Those ten seconds blink down far too quickly. He’s not even sure which paddle is in his hand when he raises it—is as shocked to see I wouldn’t do that as the others would have been to see any other answer.
Kalpana: There was a moment there where I really thought he might.
“Hmm, what about you, Jerome? You’ve certainly alluded to knowing plenty. Would you divulge a secret about another contestant for a point?”
He doesn’t even bother to raise an answer, just turns venomously to Isko and snarls, “Isko never actually graduated from culinary school.”
Isko’s paddle clatters to the floor, masking his sharp intake of breath.
He’s almost as angry at showing a reaction as he is with Jerome for chipping his carefully cultivated prestige.
“Hasn’t stopped you from eating my food,” Isko hits back.
“And those Michelin stars you claim? I don’t think busing the kitchens counts, Isko.”
Isko’s nails tighten on his thigh, like he could tear right through the flesh.
Jerome: 5
“I’m still winning, though, aren’t I?” Isko snipes. “Was it worth it?”
“I’ve still got a long competition left to destroy you.”
“Your list must be long,” Kalpana says with an eye roll seen so often it verges on iconic in itself.
“Rhys, would you break up with Araminta to double your points?”
Gasps ring the firepit they sit around—shock and jealousy, affronted by the audacity of him even being offered this as an option.
Rhys throws his I would do that paddle into the fire and jumps to his feet with the other held aloft.
“Of course not.” He draws Araminta to her feet, pulls her close, and kisses her with antagonistic passion.
Araminta: I never even doubted it.
But she has. She’s not sure, if pushed, she would have made the same choice—not because she doesn’t like him, but because she is used to making sacrifices despite herself.
“And finally, Araminta, would you forfeit all your points to replace someone on the island?”
She had I wouldn’t do that prepped in her hand, her glass in the other. But now she places her drink steadily on the other side and picks up the second paddle. She’d been so convinced she wouldn’t do it, wouldn’t even consider whatever they offered her.
But didn’t she just make a point about being immoral?
She could get rid of Isko before he could manipulate her again.
Or she could cut Jerome—she saved him last time, but the longer he goes on the more she realizes he’s going to incriminate himself and maybe make matters worse for both of them.
Or Kalpana, maybe, before she can push him far enough that it all comes tumbling out.
“Jesus Christ,” Isko mutters as the seconds tick down.
Jerome is perched on the edge of his seat, hands shaking.
Finally: I wouldn’t do that.
“Well, thank you very much, contestants,” Eloise says, clapping, as though they are not still reeling.
As they realize what has happened, they offer small smiles to Araminta, like they’re thanking her for her decision, like every one of them saw themselves suddenly cut from the show.
“And for those of you whose morals aren’t as shiny as we’d hoped—perhaps Araminta is right. Maybe you can still prove to us that you’re icons in the making.”
Theo claps Araminta on the shoulder as Eloise vanishes. “I knew you wouldn’t do that to us.”
As though she has sided in favor of her ethical code, and not in favor of five points being too high a cost.
Everyone rushes for more drinks. They are all shaken. That’s twice now they’ve faced the possibility of someone leaving this island. Their positions are tenuous. Everything they need from this show is someone else’s to snatch from their grasp at the slightest whim.
They are desperate to blunt the edge of that risk.
Jerome pours strong drinks, visibly, publicly, and pours them away the first second he gets.
Jerome: I don’t trust anyone here. Time to stop pretending like we’re in a fraternity and start taking this competition seriously. When they’re drunk, they’re vulnerable.
He plans to push them all to the utmost humiliation. Mistakes they might never stop regretting.
He watches as they laugh and chat, drinks spilling, lip curling when they demand music, and Theo rushes to acquiesce, hoping his solo efforts might garner some screen time.
It’s Jerome who makes a joke to Rhys about him not getting laid yet, Jerome who suggests they take it outside, Jerome who brings up Isko’s skinny-dip and mentions that he’s never done it himself and suddenly they’re all clamoring to go, racing across the sand, not realizing that Jerome is lingering back as they toss their clothes aside and go tearing into the ocean.
Jerome: Absolute idiots.
Rhys and Araminta collide in the water, her legs wrapped around his waist as he lifts her to them, not caring that they are naked and surrounded by the others, and the cameras don’t flinch from the suggestion of skin visible in the dark.
The others are still laughing but soon they get cold and rush back to the firepit to warm themselves. Araminta and Rhys are too drunk and too horny to care and crawl out of the ocean only to roll on top of one another on the beach, and he is pinning her arms to the sand beneath her when the camera cuts back to the house.
It catches the sole figure of Jerome slipping back inside its empty rooms in search of potential ruin.
@BethAdams99
Please, not Theo casually coming out and trying to use his apparent bisexuality to throw us off the fact that he tore his bandmates apart and broke up the band live on air. A rainbow colored look over there! FUCK THEO NEWMAN! #Iconic
@chordsbeforewhores
@BethAdams99 Let’s get this trending! Fuck Theo Newman Fuck Theo Newman Fuck Theo Newman Fuck Theo Newman Fuck Theo Newman Fuck Theo Newman Fuck Theo Newman Fuck Theo Newman! #Iconic
@PhotographybyKenny
Oh my god, just when I thought Araminta couldn’t be more of a champagne socialist—loads of her home rejuvenation workers are now claiming she got them to work for free in return for the exposure being featured on her channel would get them. Exposure doesn’t pay the bills! #Iconic
“We’ve got a problem,” Maes says.
“With the autopsy?” Kennard asks.
“No, with this,” she says as she passes him her phone, inbox open.
“What am I looking at?”
“An email from Steiner saying he’s been fielding calls from the Yaxley-Carter team of lawyers, Yaxley-Carter enterprises, and Rodger Yaxley-Carter himself.”
He scans the email, struggling to keep track of how often the words “sue” or “legal action” are used.
“She’s not under arrest,” Cloutier protests. “We haven’t even managed to speak with her.”
“And we have arrested heiresses before,” Kennard dismisses, passing the phone back. “I don’t think they’ve ever successfully sued.”
“Yes, but those arrests normally involve car accidents or possession of illicit substances and normally result in light community service. This is different—they’re saying Araminta went through too much on the island, had to watch her boyfriend die, has to cope with millions of people watching and dissecting her relationship, and the police have no right to compromise an already vulnerable person’s mental health with an interrogation when what she needs is professional support.”
“I might agree if she weren’t a suspect in a literal murder investigation. Besides, we’re not detaining her; she agreed to be here.”
“If anyone is pressuring her to stay,” Cloutier adds, “it’s AHX, not us.”
“Oh, he also outlined all the ways he’s planning on suing AHX for facilitating and encouraging everything that went down. It appears he’s trying to buy his daughter’s affections back. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know—in case the pressure weren’t already high enough—that we have a millionaire demanding we send his daughter home.”
“Great,” Kennard says, rubbing at his temples. “Anyway, where’s that autopsy?”
“Here,” she says, passing them a file. “The coroner’s running us through it in ten minutes but…well, it doesn’t clear up whether it was a murder or an accident.”
“Cause of death: asphyxiation, likely as a result of drowning. Traces of Sertraline, must have missed a dose,” Cloutier begins as he reads. “Light kidney damage—not a surprise with how much they were drinking; tar on lungs—not a surprise with how much they were smoking; aspirin, we come back to the drinking, although 0.0 blood alcohol, looks like the producer was right—wait, what’s this?”
Kennard leans over to see which section Cloutier’s looking at and feels his breath catch. It’s not often he’s surprised, but having assumed they knew the victim’s every movement for the last three weeks, this one shocks him.
“How the hell did they get drugs onto the island?”