Chapter 7

That Was a Hit Below the Camera

The first date ended, and at the director's command all the couples rose from their tables and went in different directions, leaving the improvised cafe.

I walked backstage on stiff legs, breathed in the cool air of the studio, and suddenly caught an unfamiliar feeling, as if the world had gone dark.

Not literally. It was just that after the spotlights, the sparkling fountains, dazzling Valentine's laughter, and the thunderous applause, everything around me dimmed, fell silent, and hid in shadow. As if someone backstage had turned the brightness all the way down.

Now, instead of burlesque, the room smelled of glue, plywood, and rubber wiring. A draft immediately pulled through. On autopilot, I followed the other girls down the corridor, no longer thinking about the length of my dress or the height of my heels. Still reeling from meeting Demond and from the show in general, I did not even notice how I ended up first in the makeup room, then behind Greg's screen.

The big makeup artist caught my wrist again from among the group of girls and pulled me into his comfort zone: tiny, but unexpectedly cozy. He drew the curtain, sat me in the chair, shoved a cup of hot coffee into my hands, and planted his fists on his hips.

"How are you?" he asked carefully, leaning lower and lifting one brow. "I'm serious. You look pale."

I looked at the young man. At the person who, for the last two hours, had heard every line we spoke into the microphone and seen every emotion on the monitor. If anyone knew how real everything had felt on the other side of the stage, it was him.

"You know, that was too much," I admitted, naturally slipping into informal speech with him. "I wasn't expecting it."

"Agreed," Greg nodded and pointed a black-painted fingernail at the cup I was clutching greedily to warm my palms. "Drink."

I drank. And then some more. I think it helped.

"I'm fine," I gave a careful shrug. "So what, it's just a show. One evening of humiliation. Another twenty years or so and everyone will forget it... right?"

Greg kept looking at me closely, and I surrendered. Mostly because I couldn't hold it in anyway:

"Fine, you win! I'm shattered, upset, and apparently I failed the preview. I have a horrible partner. I want to drop everything and run, and I have absolutely no idea how I'm supposed to go on a second date when I barely survived the first one!"

Greg's brown eyes blinked with sympathy.

"The scene where you ruined the guy's jacket and he patted you on the back so tenderly is definitely going into the teaser, I'll bet on it. They had a close-up, and you could see you dying morally right in front of him. Very cinematic."

"Nightmare..."

"I wouldn't say that. Are you giving it back?" Greg straightened and glanced at the jacket I still had not let go of. "Want me to hand it over to this Dennis?"

"N-no, I'll do it myself."

Greg took a box of cotton pads from the stand, dampened one with toner, and easily wiped something under my eye.

"Your mascara ran a little," he explained. "Cameras, flashes... stress! I'll fix it now, and you'll be cover-girl gorgeous again. Diana the winner, Diana the magnificent!"

"Are you kidding?" I sniffed in embarrassment, remembering the words he had said to me before I went onstage. "Sorry I let you down, Greg. I almost fell off the chair too... They're going to show that as well? Why am I even asking? Of course they are."

"No doubt about it."

"Is it true every couple gets scores from experts and the jury, besides the audience vote?"

"True."

"Then you and I are among the outsiders..."

But instead of getting upset, the man suddenly smiled wide.

"Who cares, sunshine. The main thing is, you were real. You didn't act coy or turn yourself into a doll like most of them. You held your ground, million-dollar smile, and the figure too, by the way. You didn't mug for the camera, but you still managed to show the full emotional range. You're a knockout, Di. You went out there, undressed the guy, made him dance around you, and then proudly walked off with his clothes. Didn't even say goodbye! Ah-ha-ha!" Greg laughed sincerely and loudly while I sat there, not knowing what to say.

It was strange. I had seen this gangster-looking stylist for the first time today. He was about eight years older than me, but somehow he had managed to remove the boundaries strangers usually spend weeks crossing. I simply felt he was on my side. That was all.

"By the way," Greg added, folding his muscular arms across his chest and twitching one brow, "you got yourself quite a guy. You should be pleased."

"Why on earth?" I frowned just in case.

"Charismatic guy. Confident, with a personality. You can see it right away. Viewers love that type. Pretty devil, and that arrogant smirk: be careful with that. But he didn't help you for the camera. I'd have caught the fake. If you're worried about the picture, don't be. You two look great together. The brunette-blonde contrast is pure candy, I'm telling you as a pro."

"Us?" I snorted emotionally, remembering Demond and forgetting my manners. "I can't stand him!"

"Already?" Greg marveled, lifting a brow. "Why?"

Good question. Really, why can a person feel such bright dislike for another person the moment she sees him?

"Just... intuition," I wriggled out. "A defensive reaction to arrogance."

Greg shook his head, hiding a grin.

"Looked to me like you liked him."

"Looked wrong," I muttered and took a gulp of coffee so I wouldn't blurt out anything extra.

The young man smirked:

"Sure, sure. You just didn't get a good look at the other guys. There are some specimens in there! Anyway, girl, I don't want to hear it. I'm set on winning. So finish your coffee, change clothes, and start mentally building contact with your partner. I'll step out for now and see how the crowd is breathing."


When Greg came back, I had already changed into my tracksuit, hung the dress on a hanger, and even pulled on my baseball cap as camouflage. The only thing I could not bring myself to do was gather my carefully styled hair into a ponytail, so I left it lying over my shoulders.

Greg came in, nodded approvingly, and pointed to the thin folder in his hand labeled: "Stylist Instructions. Filming Day No. 2"

"Diana, about tomorrow..." he said seriously. "The filming is planned off-site, not in the studio. Keep that in mind."

I nodded.

"I know. The female director already warned us."

"Good. Then remember: worries aside, the main thing is to sleep well and don't be late. I'll handle everything else properly. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Well, bye."

I was already about to leave and had taken hold of the curtain when Greg stopped me.

"Wait, one more thing, for the birdies on what matters..." He came closer and lowered his voice. "You're about to go out, and I swear on my teeth the trickiest contestant will try to gather you all together under the pretext of getting to know each other better. Like a girls' night, cozy little get-together. Don't fall for it. I've seen enough of that backstage. It's not about friendship or honest rivalry. It's reconnaissance before battle. Feel out the weak spots and know where to hit when it gets to the finale. In short, you don't need it."