Jennifer Rae - Who's Calling The Shots?

Yep, she could do this. For sure. Absolutely. Brooke hitched up the strap of her candy-red Wright Sports bikini and pushed a large ball of nervous energy back down her throat.

She’d never been surfing. It seemed like just another sport to fail at, and her balance wasn’t great even on solid ground, so she’d never been tempted to try. But now she had to go out there. Because her crazy sisters thought her coming on this show was their most cunning scheme ever.

‘It’ll be so good for you, Brooky.’

‘It’ll help you come out of your shell.’

‘People will love you.’

‘Imagine what it will do for the brand!’

And the last and most irritating comment of all: ‘You might meet your Mr Right.’

She wasn’t interested in meeting Mr Right. Or Mr Wrong. She was interested in meeting this month’s sales targets. And besides, if Mr Right were out there she was pretty sure he wouldn’t be on a surfboard. She had always been more into quiet, sensitive, musician-types. They got her. Those carefree athletic types were way too into themselves even to attempt to get her.

‘OK, ladies. On your boards.’

The tall, broad-shouldered instructor was hurling instructions at the twelve women lined up on the beach. At least he got to wear a wetsuit. Brooke pulled the skimpy fabric to cover up more of her breasts. She’d already argued with the producer over this. Why were they lined up like sheep at a sale yard? Why couldn’t they wear wetsuits? Wright Sports made an amazing one, lined with the highest quality Neoprene.

But the producer, Jack Douglas, had done what he always did. Smiled. Turned on his deep, calm voice. His ‘you’re crazy and I need to calm you down’ voice. Stepped back, away from her, and brushed her off.

She was sure she’d got a little red-faced when she’d argued with him about it, but he’d ignored her concerns. Told her that viewers wanted the full beach scene. And then he’d had the hide to tell her she had an amazing body and she should be proud to show it off. Which was totally not the point.

But arguing had been useless. Before too much longer he’d pulled out the old ‘you’re under contract, sweetheart’ card and walked away. So she’d lost. Again. And now she was lined up like a horse in the ring at the Melbourne Cup, awkwardly turning away every time she noticed a camera swivelling towards her butt cheeks.

Most of the other girls didn’t seem to care a fig. They were on their boards, laughing, joking—jumping up and down so their bountiful breasts bounced in the sunlight. Brooke’s breasts didn’t bounce—they were way too small for that—but she did try to smile. For her sisters. For the brand. For her family’s business. For the most important people in her life.

That was why she was here, she reminded herself as she heaved the huge board up under her arm and wrapped her fingers tightly around the edge.

Brooke grimaced to the girl on her left—Katy, she remembered. Katy the Lawyer, with her long shiny dark hair and big soulful eyes.

‘Let’s hope the lifeguards are on duty,’ she quipped.

Katy smiled back. ‘Hopefully they’ll be cute, because I’m sure I’ll end up face-down in the sand.’

Brooke felt her shoulders relax. At least most of the other girls were friendly. Something about having to go through this all together had bonded them. That and the fact that the annoying producer had forced them to all live together in a Manly penthouse. As if they were a bevy of pets from the seventies and he was hoping for a little girl-on-girl action.

Brooke felt the steam rise again. At the fact that she was being filmed in a bikini on the beach, doing something she knew she was going to fail at. At the idea of being forced to compete with other women for the chance to go on a date with a man she hadn’t even met yet and was sure she wouldn’t like anyway. But mostly she fumed at the producer. Jack Douglas.

She knew all about Jack Douglas. After their first disastrous meeting she’d looked him up. The man had only got where he was because of his dear old dad. Although, to be honest, she was in her job because of her family, too. But that was different. Jack Douglas was, by all accounts, a womaniser, a publicity whore, a charming pig. And from what she’d seen all of that was true. Because—seriously—what type of man encouraged this type of sexist, voyeuristic television?

But what annoyed her the most about Jack Douglas was that every time she looked at him she moved. Inside. Deep down. Where she didn’t want to move. Especially not for him. But his jaw was so square and his eyes were so dark, and when he crossed his arms he stood tall and strong and so incredibly sexy...it moved her. And she couldn’t control it. And that annoyed her. She was so good at controlling herself. She’d taught herself how to control her temper a long time ago. She was now quiet and easygoing and Zen. But Jack Douglas was doing his best to upset her Zen.

‘Ladies! Looking beautiful, as always.’

And there he was. Tall, athletic, self-centred, small-minded. The exact opposite of her type. Brooke hadn’t had a drink all day, but right then she felt drunk. Drunk on her own indignation. Drunk on humiliation and drunk on the idea that there was no way she was getting out of this mess now she was in it.

‘We look stupid. We should be in wetsuits,’ Brooke fumed. Zen, she reminded herself, breathing deeply the way Maddy had taught her when she was young. Stay Zen.

Jack stopped and turned to her, looking at her as if he was surprised she was even there. Arrogant. Self-important. And he still managed to move her...again. Annoying.

‘Nonsense. It’s a beautiful, summer’s day in Manly. What you’re wearing is perfect. And you all look so good—why would you want to cover that up?’

Jack’s eyes were almost black in the sun. His hair was thick, with a slight wave at the front where it swept over as if he’d just run a hand through it. His cheekbones were high and his jaw was strong, but that wasn’t what made him sexy. It was the way he looked at her. His chin tilted up, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, his full lips together. Arrogant. Entitled. Confident. As if he was thinking about having sex with her right now.

He stood like a man who was aware of his own presence. He was physically intimidating and he knew it. And he was using that now. Despite the various...annoying...movements in her core, Brooke was aware of what he was doing and she wasn’t buying into it. He could stand there, all pouty and sexy and as manly as he wanted, but right now all Brooke saw was a snout and two piggy eyes.

‘Are you serious? I mean—did you actually say that?’ Heat rose up the back of Brooke’s neck and fizzed in her ears. She turned to the cameraman who was now getting closer to Katy’s breasts. ‘Did you get that? I mean—on film? Did you get that sexist, disgusting comment on tape?’

She turned back to Jack, who was standing with his hands in his pockets, his face blankly staring at her as if he had no idea what she was talking about.

‘Because that’s what the Australian public need to see. The extent of this man’s sexism and arrogance and...and piggishness.’

Her voice was getting higher. Her fists were in balls. She wasn’t even sure what she was saying. But a thought was forming in her head. That’s it! That was all she had to do! He wouldn’t put her on the telly if she was insulting and rude and...and honest! But then if he didn’t put her on the telly where would that leave Wright Sports?

Brooke tried to breathe. She tried to think. But her tongue had other ideas. ‘This whole show is a vulgar attempt to make women appear shallow and stupid and competitive. A way to prove this man’s theory that women are second-class citizens. Well—I won’t do it!’