Page 4 of Alien Wants A Wife

“So you’re Lydia,” I guess, judging by her pink hair. “Is Briar here?”

“No. I haven’t met her yet. Apart from Chloe, you’re the first person I’ve seen all morning.”

“So you’ve spoken to Chloe?” I try to keep my voice sounding vaguely interested as I head toward my third of the clothes. “Did she say anything in particular to you?”

Lydia shrugs one sculptured shoulder. “Just that filming is going to start soon and that we need to dress fancy.” She glances down at herself, clearly unsure of her choice of gown. “Apparently we’re going to meet the guys this morning over at the main house, at some sort of canape meet and greet.”

If she’s also in cahoots with the production team with a secret task of her own to complete, she doesn’t let on, acting entirely normal.

“Oh, cool. That sounds fun.”Because I’m starving.

Inconspicuously, I search for cameras. I don’t really think they’d record us where we get changed, but it’s not uncommon for reality TV to use the audio of ‘private’ conversations of women getting ready together overlaid onto other footage. In case our voices are being recorded, I vow to mind my tongue and refrain from asking Lydia about her obvious headache. Maybe she also drank a little too much celebratory champagne last night.

Last night… I wish I could remember!

“It’s lovely to meet a fellow contestant,” I say, keeping to the type of small talk I’ve seen on other reality dating shows. “Howare you feeling? Nervous? Excited?”Like you could sleep for a week?

“Both.” Lydia lets out a shuddering breath. “I still can’t quite believe I’m here, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve been dreaming of this moment for so long. Now it’s actually happening, it feels…surreal.” I start sorting through the blue clothes, trying to disguise how much my hands are shaking. There’s an enormous variety, from princess ballgowns to slinky evening dresses, exercise gear, lounge wear, silk pjs. Some have been thrifted; others are new with the tags still attached. None are designer, but I spot a few good pieces, nonetheless.

My own clothes are also there, already clipped onto hangers. I mightn’t remember what I did last night but thank God I’d at least been lucid enough to bring my suitcase. Someone else must have unpacked for me. That was kind of them. Whoever they are.

What I can’t find is my phone or handbag. But that’s not unusual. Some shows don’t let you keep your phone during filming. And it’s not like anyone important is going to be texting me anyway. Still, I feel strange not having access to a clock or my camera. Or Instagram.

Copying Lydia, I select a cocktail dress. It’s pale blue, low cut with a band around the waist from which the skirt falls. It swishes around my legs when I walk, and I enjoy the feel, but visually… Something’s missing.

“How old are you?” Lydia asks, leaning around my trolley of clothes to better see me. “Wow. Nice dress.”

“Thanks.” I run my hands down the satin. It feels like we’re both playing roles. Asking each other the questions we think the audience will most want to know the answers to. “Thirty-one. I’m half Chinese, half Australian,” I add before she can ask. Because everyone always asks. “But don’t ask me to translate any tattoos, because I can’t speak Mandarin. I never learned. Howabout you? I mean, how old are you?” I clarify, because she’s clearly Caucasian, and I’ve discovered that white people don’t expect anyone to ask about their heritage.

“Thirty-two.” And she holds up two pairs of shoes—one silver, one pink. “Which do you think?”

“Silver. All pink might be a bit much.”

Lydia nods, accepting my advice.

If I’ve been guaranteed the heroine edit, then what does that make Lydia? The bitch? The villain? The cute best friend? The sidekick?

Me working with Chloe isn’t necessarily going to ruin Lydia’s storyline,I assure myself. Maybe I can even talk to Chloe about getting a good edit for Lydia too. And for Briar.

Maybe there’s a way we women can all come out of this experience looking good.

A trio of friends.

Hot, sexy friends, ready to take on the world.

“Hey, did you get given a weird brochure about aliens?” I ask, continuing my hunt through my clothes. I select a sequin-covered shawl. Blue, of course, with long tassels around the edge. Finding a loose thread, I pick at it, detaching individual sequins.

“Oh my god, yes,” she says in a rush, as though she’s been dying to talk about it. “What’s that all about?”

“No fu—" I catch myself before swearing. I haven’t been told I can’t use the f-word, but sayingfuckall the time doesn’t suit my new good-girl vibe. “No idea,” I finish meekly.

I find a small sewing kit tucking into one of the drawers, the type you get for free in posh hotels, and I thread the needle, using it to sew a sequin onto the bodice of my gown. I don’t take the dress off; instead, I use my body as a dress form so I can more accurately choose where I want each of the sequins to go. This would be so much faster if I had fabric glue.

“I hope they don’t have someone dressed as an alien,” Lydia says. “I think I’d die if the whole show’s alien themed and they didn’t tell us sooner. Like with pretend spaceships and little green men.” She shudders.

“LOVE GALAXY.” I repeat the show’s name. Hopefully, it’s not a hint. “It had better not be a spin-off ofSexy Beasts, either,” I agree, naming one of the dating shows I’d watched in preparation. In that one, singles are dressed in prosthetics and masks to look like monsters. It’s supposed to teach people not to make snap decisions about whether they find someone attractive from their appearance alone. But everyone knows hiding your face is delaying the inevitable. We all judge a book by its cover, no matter how much we profess otherwise.

---