Shirley Jump - The Dating Game

The executive producer of the show had come in himself at five yesterday, handed over the envelopes, noting which ones were for chosen contestants on each show—and therefore had to be delivered, and which ones were for the rejects. He’d also given everyone explicit directions not to peek at or leak the information, or he’d have their heads on a platter.

Well, he hadn’t actually said “heads” or mentioned “platter.” He’d used other—and worse—potential consequences for leaking the news. The other men in the office had steered clear of the envelopes, guarding all protruding body parts that might come anywhere near the piles.

Bowden hadn’t said a word but hadn’t followed the producer’s demands, either. He’d peeked. He’d then been up half the night concocting a plan.

Bowden picked up another letter slated for his route, this one for Survival of the Fittest. Part of a big blitz, the producer had said, to up the ratings for the local TV station by debuting two knock-off reality shows the same week.

This letter was marked for Mattie Grant, who lived in the historic Pierpont Apartments downtown, one of the first stops on Bowden’s route. A nice woman, though in need of a change. He’d met her several times over the year he’d worked here, when he’d delivered special cleats or a shipment of customized shirts for the young girls’ soccer league she coached.

They’d chatted for a few minutes last week while he’d dropped off her latest delivery. She’d let it slip that she’d auditioned for the survival show. In his hand, he knew, was her letter telling her she’d been accepted as one of the contestants.

He weighed the two letters, one in each palm, Mattie’s against the one for Miss Indiana. The idea he’d had last night returned. He shouldn’t. If he ever got caught, it would be a sure way to get fired.

Ah, to hell with the consequences. Bowden Hartman believed firmly that breaking the rules was a whole lot more fun than following them.

Mattie Grant was prepared for anything. Mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds. Fires with all the durability of tissues, drinking water with enough germs to contaminate a small rodent colony.

She could handle all of it. And win.

She had, after all, trained for competing on Survival of the Fittest with the dedication usually only seen in marathon runners. Reading books, practicing fire building, studying native flora and fauna. She had the art of survival down pat. In a jungle, a woodland, even a cave, she’d be fine.

What she was not prepared for, however, was a lavish mansion with a manicured lawn and a butler waiting at the door.

She parked her Jeep out front and considered the address on the letter she’d received via Speedy Delivery Services that morning. Bowden, her regular delivery man, had waited for her to open the envelope because he knew how much she wanted this chance at the Survival contest. Once he’d seen the look on her face, he’d offered a congratulations, told her good luck and bid her goodbye.

But she didn’t need good luck. She had skill, and during her twenty-six years Mattie had learned skill was what counted, not money, not connections, not beauty. On the field and in the game of life.

She glanced again at the opulent home, sitting like a gem in the early-July sunshine. It had to have at least twenty rooms, all behind a stone facade with great white columns flanking the front steps. This was the right street and number, but as far away from what Mattie considered roughing it as life could be.

Maybe she had to do publicity photos first or something. She’d seen CBS pull that on their contestants once. She wouldn’t put it past the Lawford, Indiana, network to do the same.

She got out of the car, strode up the granite steps and raised the bronze knocker, lowering it twice against the matching plate. A moment later an older man wearing a black suit opened the massive eight-foot oak door.

“I’m here for the TV show,” Mattie said, holding up the letter, her voice more question than declaration. This so didn’t feel right.

The butler, tall, slim and gray, didn’t blink. Or even seem to breathe. In fact, if she hadn’t seen his hand twitch a little on the door frame, she’d suspect he was one of Madame Tussaud’s best. “Right this way, ma’am.” He stepped back and waved her into the house.

“This can’t be right,” Mattie said, entering the ornate marble foyer. A crystal chandelier hung over them, the cut glass reflecting like a constellation in the sudden burst of outdoor light. “I’m here for Survival of the Fittest. This looks more like Day Camp for the Rich.”

The butler merely walked down the hall without answering her. Mattie considered leaving. If this was the right place, though, and it was some kind of trick to throw her off guard before the real Survival contest started, then she might disqualify herself by walking away.

“So, do you have a lot of Girl Scout campouts here?” she asked as she hurried down the hall to catch up, looking around for hidden cameras.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

“You know, sitting around the fire, singing “Kumbaya” and eating s’mores? Or is this more the place people go for serious mall withdrawal?”

“Uh, no, ma’am. We have none of that here at the James Estate,” the butler said, without a hint of humor in his voice. He cast a glance over his shoulder at her flip-flops and khaki shorts, not bothering to hide his look of disdain for her attire. Apparently, guests who weren’t properly clothed weren’t allowed very far into the house because he stopped at the first room on the right, a fancy-dancy parlor well suited for a poodle, and led her inside.

“Please have a seat,” the butler said, gesturing toward an ornate love seat with some curlicue fabric on it. She knew there was a name for the pattern—a name she’d never bothered to learn, much to the consternation of her mother, who thought living well was the only way to live.

Mattie, who’d spent her life with scraped knees and grass-stained socks, believed in playing hard and winning well. Curlicue fabrics didn’t fit into that equation.

The butler cleared his throat. Mattie regarded the chair. It looked more like dollhouse furniture than people furniture. Still, the butler seemed convinced it would make a suitable seat.

“May I take your, ah, bag, ma’am?” He eyed her Lands’ End backpack with a little confusion. She’d be willing to place odds on the number of people who came into a house like this ready for outdoor adventures.

“I’ll keep it with me, thanks.” On the other network’s show, Mattie had seen what happened to people who made the mistake of giving up their stuff. They ended up stuck on some island with nothing while their smarter competitors remained fully equipped. That wasn’t going to happen to her. She intended to win, and if that meant keeping her backpack away from the mortician over there, so be it.

She tucked it on the floor beside her feet and lowered herself to the love seat. No matter what it was called, the chair certainly didn’t hold a lot of love for her rear end. The seat felt stiff and uncomfortable, as if it was layered with concrete beneath the fabric. She hoped she wouldn’t be here long. Mattie Grant was about as well suited for an environment like this as a cheetah was for a cat carrier.

The butler backed out of the room, shutting the double doors without a sound. Mattie fished out the letter again from her back pocket. The single piece of stationery from the Lawford television station was simple and to the point, telling her she’d been selected as a contestant on their new reality show. The letter hadn’t been very detailed, which she’d expected. When she’d gone to the tryouts for Survival of the Fittest, the producers had warned her they’d keep as much information secret as possible, but still…