Page 4 of Insta Bride
“You do remember the name of the show, don’t you?” She laughed again. Bree was a good sort. Guys had tried to flirt their way into her favor, women had offered money—all to pull the strings she’d pulled for me.
Months ago, Bree had come onto me. Flashed her eyes and flirted her way into me buying her drinks, dinner and then breakfast. I’d known who she was, how to make sure she’d find me and hadn’t lied about my intentions. Luckily, neither of us had time for anything permanent and she’d admired my ingenuity in getting her attention.
“Does it matter?” I asked while absentmindedly nodding to my boss that I was winding up the call. I’d worked harder on my deal with Bree than any commission—I wanted in on the next reality show Bree worked on.
“Australian Love Story. The world is going to watch Kye Branson fall in love.”
Laughingly, she hung up before I could react.
Me, fall in love? No. Not today, not this year and not in my lifetime.
Mixed Up
Australian Love Story More Cast Leaks
He’s a famous but former international model who’s never had to wait in line. She’s a former Olympic swimmer who’s out of her depth in the dating pool. Will he slide into her DMs, or will she find a better offer?
You’ll read it here first. This is Danielle Stone from Wake Up Australia.
Elena
This had been a mistake.
The invitation had said Cast Mixer – meet your new friends and your next love. I read it to be a day of hell.
Full stop.
End of story.
Dressed in my royal blue overalls, flimsy white shirt, and white Converse sneakers, I’d turned up expecting to be underwhelmed and unnoticed. Half an hour after the doors opened, I hadn’t been disappointed.
The field from the online auditions had narrowed down to about fifty women. Mostly desperate for fame, love, and babies. All between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. From overhearing conversations I wasn’t a part of, the older women appeared more desperate for a sperm doner than love. The younger women still thought they had time to find love and were in it for the fame.
Overall, a great social experiment of pitching women’s insecurities and expectations into a melting pot of prime-time television. I looked forward to getting to know the women today, before watching the show when it airs to see how they’d been edited to fit a narrative.
Yes, I’d watched my fill of reality shows, and in moments of boredom, had even analysed the personality types the producers usually recruited. Hence why I knew today would be my last in the audition process. One long day for the dozens of sexy men to ignore my existence, and then I could go home with my war stories and excuses for not dating.
As women formed into small cliques, I could see the alpha-bitches already showing their claws. Maybe one or two of them would make it. Then there were three tomboys who’d found each other. They’d tried to rope me in based on my overalls, but I wasn’t sporty, and I definitely didn’t have their daddy issues.
“Who did your hair?” A statuesque blonde with the handwritten name tag, Kenzie, asked. Of course, Kenzie, had a heart over the I.
“No one.”
“Oh, girl. You must tell me. I want to go balayage but I’m totes invested in platinum.”
Who even talked like that without being force-fed lines? I smiled blandly and resisted the urge to either shake my head or some sense into her. Totes invested. How could anyone be invested in hair color?
“Sorry to disappoint. Hair goes light in summer, grows out dark in winter.”
“Lying bitch.”
I almost recoiled as Kenzie delivered the vicious words between smiling lips and fake happy face. Okay, I’d found the requisite sweet psycho bitch, whose butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, but she’d stab you in your sleep.
Great, not. I backed away, keeping note of which groups Kenzie joined before accidentally ending on the edge of a group of whiny women determined to make the Kardashians appear low maintenance. Self-proclaimed corporate princess, Darnelia—and yes, that’s the way she’d spelt her name tag—held court until a burst of energy joined, created chaos, and left.
My friends would have loved Georgia. A brunette, pixie-sized dynamo shit-stirrer. She and her like-minded friends swept through each group, only leaving when fragile new friendships and egos were in tatters. Georgia talked fast, asked intelligent questions, and didn’t hold back in her facial expressions when the over-styled princesses couldn’t understand.
Georgia, I could like. As long as I kept out of her line of fire.